


Wave the Flag

by General_Lee



Series: Who We Are Now [6]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Action, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, During Canon, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sex, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Canon, Rescue Missions, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-23
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-08-06 12:16:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 69,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16387556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Lee/pseuds/General_Lee
Summary: Season 4: A Human Error/Battle of Bunker Hill AdaptationThe whole gang is back, and when something goes very wrong in the township of Covenant all four factions find themselves converging on Bunker Hill.





	1. In the Shade of the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Theme for Wave the Flag: [''Come As You Are'' by Blakwall](https://youtu.be/glaZY2YcGUw/)

JOHN

The Fens, MA

March 15th, 2280

The tall, narrow buildings of Boston blotted out the sun and swathed the alleyways of the Fens in perpetual shade. In the entryways to Diamond City, turrets chugged reassuringly up on their platforms and from their respective corners. A few guards wandered the square in thick umpire padding, holding spiked bats and rifles at the ready. More of them sat in out-of-the-way nooks and passages patiently waiting for their shifts to be over after another boring day of roving the Fens with no action to report. This was one of the good days. On the bad days, local mutants or raiders wandered too close to the stadium, triggering the turrets and proving that the guards were worth their weight in caps as they tackled the threat.

The Wall had been hoisted up past a man’s height, spacious enough for folks and ladders to pass by with enough clearance. John worked alongside a dozen other men in one of the passageways that led to Diamond City. Blowing a strand of blonde hair out of his face, John propped up a piece of chest-high aluminum siding that read _You’re Almost Home_ in blatant white lettering. “What do you think?” he asked, dragging the sign back a few feet to allow his friend to view it at a distance.

“Needs punctuation,” Derek Wiseman stated, pausing in his own work, the fissures in his face pulling tight as he grinned. A few drops of white paint dripped from the brush in his hand.

John dipped his stiffly bristled brush back into the can of paint at Wiseman’s feet and dabbed at the sign, dotting a period at the end. He used the remainder of the paint on his brush to swipe a few arrows onto the stadium wall itself. Nestled up against the Dartmouth green of the stadium walls, John’s team of workmen were painting signage displayed down the trails that led through the city and up to Diamond’s City front gate. _Protected by the Wall_ was scrawled in several places along with other comforting slogans and a string of white arrows marked the safe routes. A few levels of scaffolding had been erected to hang signs beyond the reach of raiders looking for objects to vandalize.

It was a warm spring day and John’s sleeves were rolled up past his elbows. He no longer wore the arm guards that had been part of his ensemble for years; John’s use of hypodermics had ceased and the marks in his arms he used to hide from his brother were long gone. Fleeting thoughts of suicide or disappearing into chems were long gone. Not that he’d gone completely clean. The Jet made life bearable, though many might argue that his cushy existence in his brother’s shadow left him with little to complain about. A steady stream of Mentats kept him quiet and focused, his oversized dwelling in Diamond City’s market district filling with notes and holotapes cataloging Commonwealth information. Boston was sprawling and dripping with delicious history for him to digest, full of new blocs and regional regulations to fill his hungry mind. Though the Sea glowing off in the distance served as a constant reminder of peril, the city was in far better shape than the Capitol, and John kept his guard up while traversing between his home and Goodneighbor.

Voices rose, echoing down the alleys as a cluster of figures met by the entry to the Wall. The guards took note of the commotion and circled closer to the gateway, a couple even made the effort to get out of chairs so inconspicuously tucked into shadowy corners of the Fens. One of the blustery voices belonged to John’s brother. John felt a rush of heat to his face and hoped that Guy would stay put within the safety of the ticketing stalls. The uniquely gruff, old-timey radio play voice – like the kind that was found on old Silver Shroud recordings – of Diamond City’s local detective added to the racket at the gate.

“Looks like that creepy synth found the town pump,” Billy Black pointed out in a derisive tone. A level up on the scaffolding, he and John had a similar look, both blonde and young, but Billy’s clothes were pressed and free of tears or stains.

“Don’t be crude,” Wiseman admonished, not bothering to look up from his work. “That’s the mayor’s daughter you’re talking about.”

Up next to Billy, Hawthorne huffed, dropping his brush into a paint tray to nudge the other man, “Fucking ghouls, sticking together through thick and thin. Just not thick and _skin_ , right?” His dark face broke into a wide smile as a few workers laughed. Wiseman and John rolled their eyes at each other.

Diamond City’s ghoul mayor, Roberts, had been digging himself into a recent grave. For the last few years, his focus had been more on ghoul affairs than the rising number of missing humans that had been accumulating. “Not a single ghoul has ever gone missing, ya notice that?” Hawthorne asked in an exaggerated whisper. “But people… ya turn around and, poof, they’re gone.”

“Maybe the mayor is feeding them to his constituents,” Billy answered. More laugher chittered up and down the alley. Wiseman clenched his teeth but held his tongue, his pale, gnarled skin flushing.

The insinuation made John feel sick to his stomach. He threw his brush into the paint bucket and glared up at Hawthorne. His anger barely capped, he snapped, “Keep your ignorant comments to yourself. That’s the kinda shit that gets people killed.” Several men jeered. The ghouls in the alley remained silent, Wiseman included.

Hawthorne just laughed. “If you care so damned much about ghouls, you can start by fucking one!” he shouted and was rewarded with more snickering. Billy Black clapped him on the back.

God, John hated the upper stand brats, hated their bland humor and entitlement. He turned to take his equipment to a different passage when, as if she had been summoned, Eliza Roberts appeared, smiling, her gray eyes bright in her withered face, carrying a crate of Nukas and saying, “Hi, John.” The men in the alley erupted into howling laughter.

A blush of warmth crept into John’s cheeks, and he released a slow sigh. “Hey.” He took a Nuka from her crate and cracked the cap. Eliza peered around him to gaze at the cackling men.

“Hi, Eliza,” Wiseman added, taking a Nuka for himself. “Excuse me.” He threw the bottle at the man on the scaffolding. It exploded in a surge of glass and fizz as the man jumped back. “Go fuck _yourself_ , Hawthorne.”

More laughter resonated, amplified into a surge of sound by the narrow streets and towering buildings. Even the ghouls joined in this time. John grinned and drank his Cola as Hawthorne shook soda from his shoes.

“Here, now! What’s all this racket about?” Guy McDonough huffed, coming around from the opened Wall. “I can hear you all caterwauling from the ticket booths.” Guy had their father’s moon-shaped face and stout barrel body. John looked more like their mother with his defined features, only his hair was longer than she had ever worn hers. “Good God!” Guy gasped, eyes traveling the length of the corridor. “What the hell are you doing to the entry passages?”

John felt like he was thirteen again, caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. His brother had that effect on him. John’s excuses suddenly seemed flimsy. “Making an easy trail in – directions, warnings – you know, so folks can find their way,” he said in a voice that cracked.

Guy’s beady eyes thundered at him. “There’s no open-door policy here, John. You know that. The moment that we start to take in just anyone is when we leave ourselves open to obliteration.” He perched portly hands on his hips. “Now, who authorized this?” he asked the workers.

“Your baby brother said _you_ did,” Hawthorne cooed down. Several of the men added low whistles.

Guy’s fat face turned purple. He snagged John by the wrist and yanked him close, causing the Nuka bottle to drop from John’s hand and shatter. “You used my name to entice defamation of city property?” he snarled in a whisper, his eyes hard. “What were you thinking?”

John fixed him with an equally unmoved glare. Guy’s recent appointment to town council had been all he could talk about, but something about his personality left him ineffective as a leader. “I was _thinking_ that you’d be damn grateful when this brings in new traders and families,” John said. “That I know you – knew you’d happily take the credit. Everyone wins.”

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to,” Guy continued to growl. “I know where you keep disappearing to,” he hissed in John’s ear.

John could only stare at him _._ Danse? Was this about all the times he’d gone off without notice to see Danse? Everyone lied, cheated, or otherwise mislead to their advantage. And then there was Danse, beautiful and noble, with no goddamn filter at all. He spoke as honestly as he thought, even if what he said came out as harsh. The two of them were finally aligned and in a good place. The constant anxiety of uncertainty had been replaced with a soothing relief that only came with honesty and trust.

“You and your filthy little habits,” Guy sneered, his expression distorting in disgust. “I know where our money goes and the kind of riff-raff you give it to.”

With a start, John knew that he was talking about Goodneighbor. “That guy Vic and his idiots? You think I want those bastards here? Hell, no!” He twisted his wrist out of Guy’s grip and pointed at the signs in the corridor. “Guy, this is legit. This is a game changer. A safe port in this shithole of a city. It’s gonna save lives.”

Guy moved away from him, repugnance still wrinkling his nose. “These are not your calls to make.” He shouted at the men in the alley, “Pack it in. Get that equipment back from whenever you stole it. And the next time someone uses my name, you’d better find me first.” 

John felt a rush of heat flow through him. He hauled up a can of white paint and threw it at the stadium wall. It splashed upon contact, sending great spreads of white to coat bright green. Rivulets dripped down, pooling in snowy puddles on the asphalt. John tightened his fists as the workers slunk away from the scaffolding. Wisemen shot him a sympathetic look before disappearing into the stadium.

Guy shook a finger in John’s face. “Never let me catch you fooling me again. You might not respect me but plenty of people in this town do. I gave you a life here and I can just as easily take it away.” He snapped his fingers on ‘ _away’,_ demonstrating just how simple it would be to leave John homeless.

John pondered that thought for a moment. How bad would it be, if it came to that? He could end up back in the Capital Wasteland, staying at Rivet City for a price or in Underworld for a trade of labor if he couldn’t afford a room outright. Danse would be nearby and Guy far, far away. Hell, maybe he’d played his life all wrong for that to not be his reality. But that would mean abandoning his life’s work. Without the influence that his brother held, all of John’s dreams of instigating a political overhaul to the Commonwealth would be lost. The Brotherhood’s impact was too great on the Capital and no change was likely to occur anytime soon. No. He’d have to stay put and bide his time. His moment would come, he just had to wait for it.

The streets cleared and as Guy ventured back inside the city, John felt a hand on his back. He whirled, bringing up a fist. “Fuck.” He dropped his hand, sudden tension releasing from his shoulders. “Eliza.”

She still stood nearby in her faded dress, looking very much like a child – a gaunt, deeply scarred child. “I’m sorry, John. You and me… we seem to make a lot of trouble.”  Eliza Roberts would always be fifteen years old, perpetually trapped in a teenage body and an adolescent mind. Ghoulification hadn’t withered her completely; a tiny thing, she still had enough curves to draw the eye and a wicked streak behind closed doors that clashed with the innocent air she gave off. She wore a wig – custom for female ghouls – of fat, dark curls. John supposed that was why so many men took a liking to her. There was something enticing and taboo about a young girl that wasn’t as young as she seemed, even to John. Incurably flirtatious Eliza ate the attention up.

Despite John’s devotion to Danse, some women – and on rarer occasion, men – still caught his eye. Not that he would ever stray – that wasn’t the type of man he was. It wasn’t that Danse would ever know, but the soldier took a hell of a risk by contacting John at all, and John wasn’t about to discard the person that he loved most of all for someone as flippant about feelings as Eliza was. He liked her well enough, but they had zero in common. Imprisoned in eternal pubescence, she had a habit of falling in love once a week and with a different man each time, putting a strain with no end on her father. This week, John made sure it wasn’t him. “Go home, Eliza. Your father’s been worried.”

“Oh.” She removed her hand away the small of his back. “Okay. See you, John.” He gave her a tight-lipped smile as she left. Alone at last, he sagged against the wall, mindful of the wet paint. He kicked at the scaffolding, making it clank and jiggle. His emotions roiled, and an overwhelming need to escape came over him. Goodneighbor, maybe. Or a few days in Bunker Hill. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he stalked away from the entrance to the stadium.

He hadn’t made it very far when a voice drawled, “If you insist on running, be sure that it’s towards something better and not away from something that’s merely difficult. And, for God’s sake, take a gun. It’s rough out there.”

John stopped and turned back around.

A shabby looking man stood in the shadows of the Wall, his form draped in a tattered trenchcoat. He lit a cigarette. The flame briefly bathed his face in light.

“It’s you,” John said, momentarily transfixed. “You’re the one that brought Eliza back. Again.”

The half-disintegrated synth clapped his lighter closed. “Poor, simple Eliza. She has no idea how many problems she creates.”

John walked back, asking, “Why do you keep helping her?”

“It’s not her fault. Hell, she thinks she’s in love. She’s a dim bird but a sweet girl.”

John stopped in front of the mechanical man, a smile stealing across his face. “And her father pays you.”

The synth gave a half-smile in return. “And he pays me.”

Diamond City’s resident gumshoe had been operating long before John arrived, a staple within the municipal. John joined him in the shadows, producing a canister of Jet and shaking it. “You’ve been here longer than I have.” John paused to take a hit. “And I still can’t figure this place out,” he rasped through a grimace. He coughed on leftover fumes.

“People are all kinda the same,” the synth noted, the gleam of a metal jawline visible through gaping holes in his peeling polymer skin.

“How’s that?” John said slowly, the words slurred slightly as the Jet slackened his thought process.

“Self-interest always trumps common sense.”

“Guess that’d explain it.” Still upset over his failed plan, John took another hit. This sucked, trying to weave his way through city policies and do good, only to be thwarted be his brother at each turn. If the lower stands were cleared, refugees and drifters wouldn’t have to sleep on bags left out in the open. The Wall could provide a base of operations for the Minutemen, letting them establish safer trade routes throughout the ‘Wealth. Purified water could be easily stockpiled and distributed, hell, even turning a cap if dispensers could be rigged throughout the ruins. The council, under Guy’s influence, denied each of John’s appeals. And why wouldn’t they? Each council member was from the upper stands with their needs already met, and Roberts was too terrified of an uprising that he went blindingly along with whatever measure they passed.

The synth puffed on his cigarette and fixed John with bright yellow optics. “You aren’t scared of me at all, are you? As long as you’ve been here, you’ve never chucked a rock at me or tagged up my sign. That’s rare, I’m sad to say.”

John exhaled slowly, blowing residual residue from his lungs. No, he wasn’t scared. They were just two outcasts, nursing vices in the shade of the Wall. He cleared his throat. “I… owned a synth once. Guess I’ve had time to adjust. He wasn’t anything like you, though.”

“How’s that?”

“You’ve got way more skin.”

“Ah.” The mechanical man nodded, his plastic face pulling into a grin. “One of my skinny, dumb predecessors. How’d you find one of those things, let alone tame it?”

John pocketed the canister and shook his head, mind comfortably fuzzy. “Story for another day.” He looked back at the entrance to Diamond City. His arrows still looked inviting, no matter what the cost had been to put them up. A stack of half-formed essays on the individual townships that had made up the Commonwealth Provisional Government sat on his desk at home, waiting for his attention. John had no doubt that Guy would be waiting for him as well, probably prepping a lecture right now.

He gave the synth a stiff farewell nod, turned, and headed for Goodneighbor. His brother could have Diamond City all to himself if he wanted it.


	2. The Wrong John

JOHN

Goodneighbor, MA

April 10th, 2288

John blinked sluggishly at the ceiling above his head. At some point after the bombs had fallen, the red paint had begun to peel in the rooms at the Hotel Rexford. Above John was a white gap in the shape of Australia where the paint had retreated into hanging, rotted strips, leaving exposed plaster behind. From the chaise lounge where he lay sprawled on his back, John listlessly rolled his head towards the person sitting crosswise in the ornamental chair beside him. Fred Allen’s head had lolled back and his mouth was open. John wondered if he saw Australia, too.

A foreign chem called Rocket had come in on one of the caravans and John wouldn’t have been much of a leader to let an untested drug go straight into circulation. Fred was Goodneighbor’s resident chem expert and, out of habit, the two of them did a service to their town by sampling the goods. Quality control, plus a generous sample. Win, win. The Rocket was contained in familiar red inhalers and felt like a variant of Jet, albeit a much stronger variety. It had been a long while since a baseline Jet product had affected either of them so heavily and the sensations were swift to claim their senses.

Both of their arms drooped, fingers dangling close to the floor as they lay in the silent aftereffects of their high. John felt like he was sinking, as if the chaise was trying to consume him, to suck him straight down through its cushions. Escaping, John rolled off it, wooden limbs refusing to cooperate, ending up on all fours. The heavy fabric of his red coat pooled by his knees and blended in with the patchy carpeting. The floor tilted a little, attempting to buck him from it. He shoved himself to his feet, using Fred’s chair as leverage. It was late, and interested parties, such as Fahrenheit and Danse, would be worried. As he stood, he clapped his friend on the knee and was rewarded with a slothful thumbs-up gesture. Good. John felt better about leaving Fred alone with his high having been given approval. John swayed his way down the hall, keeping a hand on the wall for guidance. He’d tumbled down the hotel stairs a time or two before, but no one had caught him yet. The hotel lobby was empty save for Drinkin’ Buddy, who clanged back and forth across the foyer, waiting for someone to place an order. Shoving the front door open, John took a deep, stabilizing breath of cool yet rancid air through his exposed nasal cavity. Hints of asphalt, Jet, human refuse and cigarette smoke tickled his senses. Smelled like home.

As a human, it had taken John years to learn what his chem tolerances were, undergoing several close calls in the process. As a ghoul, he had to undergo the entire process all over again, only that time he had been reckless and ignorant, trusting the higher tolerances of his new body and treating it poorly. That wouldn’t have been proper mayoral behavior for any place but Goodneighbor. Here, it made him a legend. _Hancock_ , the mythical hero who liberated a township and kept the doors wide open. _Hancock_ , the everyman who partook in all the vices that his residents did. _Hancock_ , who managed to remain unconscious throughout most of his ghoulification. _Hancock_ , who, like the coward he was, had sent MacCready, his deputy mayor, to Sanctuary to inform the others of Nick Valentine’s death while he hid out in Goodneighbor, killing himself slowly with chems and secreting Danse away.

The memories of Far Harbor still hung over John’s head like a cloud. His guilt over Nick had been inescapable, and he had relapsed into chems as a method of hiding. His newfound _abilities_ left him shaken, and he longed for another ghoul to share his experience with. Rumors of sentient Glowing Ones made the rounds during late night conversations bolstered with alcohol, but John had never seen one, nor did he know where to look. He’d been able to explain away his new, bright golden eyes as a latent side effect of his transformation drug, joking that the gold hue made him worth more.

Though it seemed an insane notion, he swore he could feel the underlying radiation in the air and earth itself, in the mutated beings that roamed the wastes, in weapons, in the ticking of alarm clocks. It was everywhere; radiation and nuclear material interwoven with the fabric of modern reality. It was ubiquitous, linking him to wasted world he lived in. John could feel it and, when he chose, manipulate it. Christ, if he wanted to, he could pop in on any cluster of Children, up past Kingsport or at that crater in the Sea, toss a few balls of rads around and claim to be Atom reborn. Who’s to say he wasn’t? It had been ages since he’d had to fight off a feral, feeling a larger force at work. God, or just the final threshold before losing his mind entirely? That feral within gnawed relentlessly at the back of his consciousness.

“Mr. Mayor?”

John halted in the street. Lost in his thoughts and chem-hazy, his trek to the State House had been slow. He spotted Kent Connelly waving at him from the open door to the Memory Den, his gentle face worried. Everyone in Goodneighbor felt sorry for Kent. It was his brother, Parker, that Vic tossed off the State House balcony all those years ago. Since John’s reign, the town had banded together to take care of the kind-hearted yet simple-minded ghoul. Kent had a touch of the Old World Blues, longing for adventure yet too timid to leave the fortifications. In lieu of danger, he was vicariously writing new Silver Shroud episodes and trying to recruit talent, and the radio hacks at WRVR were fully game to snag new material.

“There’s somebody for you on the radio,” called Kent. “It’s a… well, it’s a little hard to understand. She curses a lot.”

Frowning, John followed Kent inside. The interior of the Den was warm and heady with the lingering scent of Irma’s perfume. Kent ushered him into the side room, cramped with Silver Shroud memorabilia and radio equipment. John leaned over the desk as Kent flicked dials and nodded at him.

“Hancock,” John spoke into the microphone. “What’s it to ya?” He took a deep breath and willed the wallpaper patterns to stop crawling. The way they whirled was distracting and nauseating. He clenched he eyes shut.

“ _Fuckin’ hell. Finally_ ,” was the response over the line. “ _Thought I’d have to march down there and cart ya off myself_.”

 _Cait?_ Why would Cait be contacting him? They’d experienced a minimal amount of interactions in the past, mostly with her trying to convince him to blow his own brains out. “Whacha need, doll?” he asked, baffled.

“ _I… well… the thing of it is…_ ” Strong-willed Cait seemed to be nervous. John was intrigued. “ _Look… I’ma need you to go on a road trip with me. Ain’t no big deal, just something I gotta do and I… I’d like you with me. I think you’d get it, wouldn’t push me past what I was ready for._ ”

He blinked and sighed. “I’m gonna need more information, Cait.”

There were a few muffled curses, as if she’d turned her head away from the microphone to swear. When she came back on, she asked, “ _Ya ever hear of a Vault 95?_ ”

John felt a cold, rippling chill. The rehab vault from local legend. “No. You’re on your own,” he said. “I ain’t going with you there.” Going to 95… she was crazy to think he’d accompany her. No way. He moved to shut down the signal.  

“ _Wait!”_ Cait yelled at him, as if she could sense she was losing him. “ _I ain’t saying that you gotta go through it with me. Nate, he’s taking me, wants me to get clean. Curie’s coming too, thinks it’ll be scientific or some shite. But… John… you’re the only other person I know who’s stuck in the same place as I am, and ya knows what this feels like. You understand what I’m givin’ up and… that’ll make me feel less alone in this.”_

Despite their connection being audio-only, he shook his head. “I ain’t holdin’ the banner at your pity party. Find some other sap.” This time, he did manage to turn off the receiver before she said anything else. He turned to go, finding Kent sitting in a Pod, intensely rubbing his eyes. “Sorry you had to witness that garbage, Kent,” said John. Kent blinked at him through violently red sclera. He looked tired and... pale, if that was even possible for a ghoul. “Get some sleep, pal.” Kent nodded, and John left him behind, heading back out into the street and towards his residence.

The Old State House stood vacant at night, drifters who couldn’t afford a stay at the Rexford sent off into the cleared warehouses for temporary housing. No longer a halfway-house for junkies and drunks, he and Danse shared an apartment on the top floor, the lower levels utilized for conducting town business and organizing papers. John had spent the last few weeks categorizing his writing and including an index for reference while Danse handled requisitions for Daisy and The Third Rail.

Danse’s inspections of incoming caravans were top-notch, and he uncovered a good deal of smuggled items that would have otherwise slipped past unnoticed. Danse had also solved the potted meat conundrum. He’d taken a cadre of triggermen to the cannery up the coast and they hadn’t had a problem since. Danse had also been intercepting shipments of a new import, something called Punga Fruit. Apparently, ghouls in the Capital had gotten sick from them, and Danse spilled that the Brotherhood had previously used them to poison clusters of ghouls deemed dangerous. When asked if Danse mean _feral_ ghouls, he’d declined to answer.

In the empty State House, both John and Danse finally had the privacy and lengthy time together they’d sacrificed in the past. They could do whatever they wanted or needed, without fear of being caught or overheard. Most of Goodneighbor knew about them or, at least, had their suspicions. Not that news of them would ever leave the town. Folks didn’t go to Goodneighbor to spread rumors about other peoples’ habits.

John found it a long, tedious haul to get himself up the winding staircase, vertigo toying with his senses the entire way as he tried to watch his feet instead of the never-ending swirl of the bannister. When he arrived at the top floor, he found Danse, still dressed in the same jeans and black shirt from the morning, seated at a table, pieces of Righteous Authority spread out over its surface as he cleaned each portion by lamplight. Their queen-sized bed lay in shadow behind him. “I sent Fahrenheit home,” Danse informed, running a rag over the barrel of his laser rifle without looking up. “She said to remind you of a meeting about the Minutemen caravans at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow.”

“Was that the way she said it?” John chided, bracing his hands on either side of the doorframe and watching Danse meticulously work from the landing. Atom’s Judgement, the sledgehammer that John had brought back from Far Harbor sat in a darkened corner. John hadn’t been able to reactivate the radioactive element of the weapon since leaving the island and its fog. He took a small amount of comfort at that.

“Well… no.” Danse set the barrel down and picked up his rifle’s stock. “But the meaning is identical.” He was barefoot, a sobering reality of their domesticity. His jaw was covered in stubble once more. John had hated the beard and, after too many Mentats one night, had confessed it. Danse trimmed his facial hair immediately. Danse’s dark hair was shorter too, styled like it had been when he had still believed he was human. Maybe synths didn’t age, but even if the rumors weren’t true, they sure had to go through all the petty maintenance that normal humans did with things like teeth, nails and hair.

The two of them were still adjusting to living together. Things were nice, if odd. Even at the height of their former relationship, they hadn’t spent more than a few days together. John wasn’t used to having someone around all the time and was constantly learning new things about the both of them. It felt strangely domestic to let Danse button the cuffs of his shirt in the mornings instead of using his teeth. Some days, Danse was debilitated by migraines so bad that that he would spend the hours curled into a ball in their bed, grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes and remaining inconsolable. Although he had mentioned headaches before, John had no idea of their magnitude. He had also forgotten about Danse’s night terrors and had rolled out of the way many a time to avoid being beaten as Danse violently thrashed his way out of nightmares. When he went without the blank sanctity of Calmex, Danse relived horrors almost nightly, leaving him exhausted in the mornings. Not that his responsibilities at the gate suffered, but John was realizing just how hard Danse pushed himself each day.

“Why are you lingering in the doorway?” Danse asked, lifting his eyes from his work to study John. “Are you all right?”

John hesitated before crossing the room, which seemed to shift and turn slightly as he walked. He eased his plasma pistol out of concealment and gently placed it on the table. His lifted his hand from it and stood as straight as he could, knowing that, even then, he was swaying, compensating as the floor seemed to rock below his feet like he was standing on a ship at sea. Danse’s dark eyes rounded, sharpened, then clouded over.

John knew it, knew that he was higher than Danse had ever seen him. He expected Danse to scold him, to shake him, to leave him entirely. He deserved as much **.** Danse put forth such an effort, working on building their lives together while John was the one ruining it, falling into old habits without much consideration for Danse’s opinions. He hadn’t said that he would try and leave chems alone, not wanting to make promises that he couldn’t keep. Previously, Danse’s presence in his life had lessened John’s desire to drown himself in substances. But recently, doing so seemed to only sure escape from the reality of what had happened on the island.

To his credit, Danse was much calmer than John anticipated. He settled his cleaning items back on the table and took pause before asking, “Why do you do this to yourself?”

The room shifted from a back and forth motion to a spin, jerking beneath John’s feet. For fear of pitching face-first, he lowered himself down to the floor of their apartment, forehead almost touching the floorboards, hands spread out as it to keep from falling through the center of the Earth as his stomach lurched. “I don’t know…” was the only reply he could think of. Saying that the chems had been there when Danse hadn’t seemed unduly cruel.

The chair squealed against the floor, and a moment later Danse was rubbing the scar-hardened flesh of John’s neck with one hand. The gentleness of his touch made John feel that much worse. Danse wasn’t ignorant. He’d obviously been allowing John chem-freedom, trusting him to take care of himself. Not a dumb move, but stereotypically naïve. “Are you really that unhappy?” Danse asked, voice a fraction softer than normal.

“No, no,” John insisted, wanting to take the comfort that Danse was offering. He didn’t want to be numb while around Danse; he wanted to cherish every moment they had together with perfect clarity. But the damn chems, the guilt, the lies, their own rough history got in the way. “It ain’t about that. It’s all kinda wrapped up in who I am.”

He felt awful for Danse – that he had to endure kissing John’s rough lips and stroking his rad-torn carcass, that he took Rad-X every morning so that John didn’t irradiate him with the byproducts of their lovemaking. Danse deserved better than a junkie ghoul at the end of his rope. For the first time, John found himself regretting that he took the drug that changed him. He would never be the person he was again, and that was who Danse wanted. McDonough, not Hancock. He was with the wrong John. Now, John feared that their relationship would always be draped with a melancholic veil.

“I keep expecting us to break,” John admitted, more to the floorboards than to Danse.

“We won’t,” Danse promised, hands tugging the heavy frock coat from John’s shoulders. Still slumped on the floor, he watched Danse fold the garment and sling it over a chair, a neutral expression on his face.

John weaved lightly, the rate of his breathing rapidly increasing. “ _Now_ ,” John snapped, heartbeat thudding in his chest. He stared up at Danse with an anxious glare. “You say that _now_. And when you’re sick of the rads, sick of my town, sick of being scared of what might happen if people knew about us, what then? I’m long haul, Dan. I always have been.”

Concern pinched Danse’s brows. “Then why are you the one that sounds so terrified?”

John panted in his panic, unable to answer. _Because neither of us are the same as who we were_. _Because I don’t trust that this is real. Because I’m absolutely certain that I’ll wreck things again._ He could have chalked his thoughts up to paranoia, that it was the chems talking, but that would have been a half-truth. Having something was almost as bad as not having it, the fear of losing it too potent. “I’m trying to hold my shit together,” John wheezed, throat constricting. “I am. For you. But, I don’t know how much time I have left. I don’t know and I’m wasting it.” The truth of that statement slammed the air out of John’s lungs. He was suffocating. Every moment could be his last, and here he was, high off his ass. “I’m wasting it. Shit. Dan. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I –”

Black. Gone. Nothing. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. Sensation crashed along John’s senses like waves beating against the shoreline. He was falling, plummeting down a dark tube. In blinded panic he fought, struggling to grasp at something – anything – to stop his descent. He drew ragged breaths, gasping. The lack of oxygen made his head spin.

For someplace beyond the crushing depths of John’s sense-numb abyss, Danse’s deep voice rumbled, “Breathe. Listen to the sound of my voice. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Pins and needles prickled along John’s limbs. He followed the voice, clutching it like a lifeline. When he opened his eyes, he found himself pinned to the floor of the State House, Danse’s bulk on top of him, holding him down. The wooden floorboards were rough under his cheek. He had faltered, enduring another brief tumble into a feral state. Sucking in rasping gasps, hot irradiated tears began to flow. “Put in a bullet in me,” he begged.

“I will not,” said Danse, releasing him. “Not yet.”

This was their lives now – the real reason that the State House was empty. Privacy and secrecy, not for them, not for Danse, but to protect Goodneighbor from the truth. John’s episodes were usually provoked by physical duress or high-strain situations. A bit of cold, hard reality was that they were both terrified of John having a feral slip while one of them was balls-deep in the other. The intimacy in their lives was handled with careful finesse. Not what John would choose, but the matter was out of his hands.

John rolled onto his back and saw that Danse’s forearms were bleeding. John, having lost control, had torn channels into his flesh. “You’re gonna back out of it.” John shook his head sadly, tears leaving a slight burn as they trickled down his cheeks. “You’re gonna try and save me.”

Shaking out a length of cloth, Danse tore it in half and set to bandaging his arms. “I can’t be faulted for that.”

“Don’t,” John pleaded from the floor. “Don’t keep what’s left of me in a pen while you search for a miracle. I don’t want that. When it’s time, you gotta let me go.”

Danse didn’t answer. He never lied or made false promises, opting for truths that were harsh and honest. He regarded John’s tears and frowned. “Stop. You were always such as ugly crier.”

John sobbed a weak laugh but settled. He held out a hand and Danse pulled him to his feet. Abruptly exhausted, he leaned into Danse’s broad chest. Danse reached down, fingers reaching to unknot the flag around John’s hips. He draped it around John’s neck and pulled until their foreheads touched, nudging the tricorn up. “You’ve given me a home, John. Reasons to fight. I lost my family when I was turned out of the Prydwen, but I gained you. In the Brotherhood” – John rolled his eyes at every sentence that began with _in the Brotherhood_ – “I never really fit in. I don’t regret serving with them, I doubt that I ever will, but I do feel that I’ve disappointed you.” Danse’s mouth turned down, and his brows lowered and creased as he eased the open waistcoat down John’s arms and added it to the chair with the coat. He raised his eyes to John’s face and traced gentle fingertips down the furrows in John’s throat. “Had I been by your side, you wouldn’t have done this to yourself.”

Hot guilt renewed, and John stepped back, batting Danse’s hand away. “Dan… we can’t play that game – the shouldas, couldas, and mighta beens. This is what it is.”

Danse’s gaze was lost somewhere on the exposed flesh of John’s collarbones. “What was it like?” His solemn eyes found John’s, irises amber in the weak firelight of the lanterns. “When you became… when you went…”

“ _Ghoul?_ ” John volunteered, removing his hat. He tossed it onto the table, near to his gun. The churning of the room had slowed, and he was grateful for that.

Eyes traveled to the flayed patch of skin on John’s forehead, and Danse answered, “Yes.”

There was a time and a place for honesty and if John wasn’t a coward, this might have been either. “Was no big deal,” John lied, pulling the flag from his neck. He wound it around one hand as he spoke. “I went to sleep. I woke up minus some skin.”

“I find that account unlikely.”

John didn’t look up. “Daisy been filling your head with stories again?” Danse had been taking his requisition duties seriously, which meant a tight bond with both Daisy and KLEO. When he appointed him, John had expected some level of disgust from Danse at having to work with either of them. He hadn’t taken Danse’s love of order and responsibility into consideration, and the man had shocked him when he began cataloging weaknesses in town barriers with the assaultron and charting caravan inventory with Daisy as she told him tales of her long history.

He felt the beginning of a chem headache starting to form between his eyes and ground a knuckle into the pain, flinching. When he opened his eyes, he caught Danse placing a carton of dirty water on a nightstand as he sat on their bed. He held out a hand over the bed, indicating the John should join him. John did, looping the flag around one of the bedposts as he seated himself.

“John,” Danse began, his hands in his lap. “I do realize who you are. Who you’ve been in my absence. I don’t blame you for any of it.” There was a snag in the blanket that covered the bed. John picked at it as Danse talked. “I care about you and I find myself in a position that can no longer ignore. You have a two-decade history with chem-use that has led you down some very dark roads. Now, I know that you’re an adult and in a significant station within this town, but I’m… constantly concerned for your wellbeing.  I also find that my silence on this matter might be misconstrued as leniency.” John drooped and fell into a pout. This conversation was a long time coming. He was aware that he often tasted of chems, and that could be no treat for Danse. He tugged his boots off as Danse continued, “I don’t bring this up to admonish you. I just… it hurts my heart to think of you intentionally hurting yourself.”  

John tossed his boots under the bed and scowled at him. “I’d never do that.”

Danse’s warm eyes were troubled, not accusatory. “You have before. I know circumstances are different now, but I still worry. I’m not asking you to stop – I can’t ask you to do that for me. But…” He reached for John’s hand and took it. “Please don’t feel that you have to run or hide from me. I can be there for you. Whatever crutch you need… use me to help bare your burdens. I can take it.”

John’s breath stole away. He altered his grip so that he could lace his fingers with Danse’s. He knew he hadn’t been a very good partner for Danse, selling him short and not trusting that he could share his problems. He felt like nothing, a waste of space, undeserving of such affection. Way to get Danse all the way to this point just to ruin it. Danse had been busting his ass to adjust to any sort of life in Goodneighbor, and the thought of giving him yet another task, of having to prop John up, seemed offensive. Battling to find a solution, John found himself saying, “Cait called me on the radio tonight. There’s a vault somewhere that treats addictions… she wanted me to go with her.”

In rare instances, Danse spared a blessed extra moment to think before he spoke. After a brief pause, he asked, “If you accompanied her, is that… something that you would consider?”

It was almost frightening to think of a life without the cushy fallback of chem-use. Particularly now, with him on the brink. Shrugging, John said, “Dunno. Not sure. Can’t really make that promise.”

Danse stood and kissed John on the forehead, right over the wide scar there. He pressed the carton of water into John’s hand. “Drink this before you go to sleep. It will help with the headache.”

John chugged the carton while Danse went back to cleaning his gun. He placed the empty container back on the nightstand and wiggled under the covers, pulling the blanket over his head. He felt a clash of desires – to gratify Danse, to support Cait, to hold fast to the last few traits that were still recognizable as _his_. He almost laughed – as if chems made up a part of who he was. But they did now, even physically, and he couldn’t sweep that fact aside. He was grateful that Danse hadn’t given him an ultimatum. Had it boiled down to that, he would have liked to assume that he would have picked Danse but, in truth, he wasn’t so certain. Years of wanting this, a life with Danse seemingly contented at his side, and yet there was still a chance that he would throw it away for a few shots at getting high. Danse didn’t have to be ashamed of him. He was ashamed of himself.

The next morning, he radioed Sanctuary and told the group to wait for him.  


	3. Benign Intervention

MACCREADY

Vault 111, MA

April 13th, 2288

The interior of the vault was quiet. Too quiet. A sterile sort of lonely. But MacCready was back in the secure confines of underground, with only a single exit to watch. Above, on the Earth’s surface, it was late morning. Down here, time could have stopped, and no one would have been the wiser.

MacCready tapped a column of cigarette ash into a mug that read _World’s Best Overseer_ in gaudy blue and yellow lettering. Thin fingers spun Lucy’s mercy bullet – not that he’d gotten that chance to use it – around and around on the desktop. He leaned back in an ergonomic chair until he could put his feet up on a desk facing the antichamber that led towards the vault door. Checking the terminal, he took another drag on his smoke. _Searching for connection_ , the screen read. The words hadn’t changed in hours. Either the group hadn’t reached the other vault yet or they’d been eaten by rabid molerats on the way. He preferred to favor the former.

It had been Curie’s idea to use Nate’s Pip-boy to transmit an audio recording of the procedure in Vault 95 to Vault 111 for storage and additional notetaking. Over the last few months, she had been transferring all her handwritten notes to digital formats. As the nearest location to Sanctuary, and with a vast amount of memory storage available, Vault 111 had become her laboratory. Although Nate had left the vault open for her, he never went in, not that MacCready could blame him. He’d never returned to the metro tunnel where Lucy had died.

Before leaving, Curie had excitedly explained that anyone who wished to listen to her broadcast would be welcome, that it was sure to be ‘ _an enlightening event for the progression of neuroscience_ ’. MacCready gave zero fucks about science, but should the entire procedure fail or… end badly… he wanted to know immediately, didn’t want waste a single second nurturing false hope. He had a vested interest in the outcome of this mission. Besides, any excuse to escape the Minutemen presence in Sanctuary was welcomed. But Nate was pretty cool, even if he was a goody-goody. The two of them got along well enough, as they were both members of the dead-spouse club, with kids in peril.

The overhead fluorescents hummed, and the vault smelled faintly of mildew. Waiting was the worst. Waiting to hear about Duncan’s recovery, waiting for cap-cow Nate to return, waiting to see if _she’d_ be okay…

A clanking sound echoed from the entry, the gangway dropping down into place as the lift descended. MacCready took a puff on his smoke and fingered his sidearm. After a moment, Danse wandered into the office, dressed in normal, everyday – if tight – Wasteland clothes.

MacCready tucked Lucy’s bullet back into the band of his cap, right next to the one meant for him. He stamped his cigarette out on the overseer’s desk, leaving a neat, round burn, and asked, “Here to be part of the audience? Hope you brought popcorn.”

“I… figured it prudent to maintain awareness of the situation,” Danse said. He slid a metal folding chair near to the desk and sat backwards in it, thick forearms crossed over the seatback.

“Uh-huh,” MacCready answered sardonically. He wasn’t sure who Danse thought he was fooling by wearing ripped jeans and flannel. Maybe he had been demoted. Once Nate had showed up wearing the paladin’s old armor, Sanctuary began buzzing with questions. Had Danse donated it? Given how proud he’d been of that damn suit, the idea seemed farfetched. Rumor was that Danse had been having trouble with his faction, and most of those in Sanctuary had taken bets on what he might have done to merit reprisal from the Brotherhood. Deacon’s theory had been the craziest, but then, one never knew what would come out of his mouth. The paladin had been antisocial for weeks before straight up vanishing. MacCready had seen him in Goodneighbor during intermittent visits, but his presence seemed bizarre and confusing on too many levels. John had told him to keep his mouth shut and, with his new cap-flow from the State House on the line, MacCready had readily complied. Being Deputy Major was a good job, and he tried to not fuc – mess it up.

Out of the corner of his eye, MacCready saw the text on the terminal screen change. _Connection established. Recording enabled_. He swung his legs down from the desk.

 _“Oh, my. Monsieur Nate, this device is much lighter in weight than I had anticipated. What a marvelous design,”_ Curie’s lilting voice spilled from the overhead speakers. The audio from Nate’s Pip-Boy must be flowing through the vault’s mainframe.

 _“You know what was really goddamn marvelous?”_ John’s voice had an edge to it. _“The amount of Gunners we had to gut to get in here.”_ Danse glanced up at the speakers with an anxious expression, as if he was watching the group in 95.

“ _Curie, I’m going to man the terminal. You go with Cait_ ,” Nate’s commanding voice instructed.

 _“Oui. Yes. Of course.”_ Footsteps. The hiss and drag of a hydraulic door sliding open. _“I will admit that I expected a medical facility to be, well… tidier.”_

 _“Hell,”_ Cait grumbled. “ _Watch me go through all o’ this, just to die from tetanus a week later_. _Whose piss poor idea was this anyway_?”

“ _Yours, Cait_ ,” Nate said. “ _Get in the chair_.”

“ _Yeah, yeah. Gimma a sec_.” Cait was stalling. MacCready could hear the worry in her voice, a nervous energy that could swiftly turn to panic.

Clink-clink. It sounded like someone was tapping on glass. “ _You got this, toots_ ,” John called. “ _Here for ya_.” How his mayor had gotten caught up in this quest, MacCready couldn’t guess. It looked like the blind was leading the blind through this one. Or, the stoned leading the stoned.

“ _Subject, female, age twenty-six, prepared for detoxification treatment_ ,” Curie announced. Clearly, Cait had concurred to suck it up and sit down.

“ _Okay. Accessing clean room terminal_ ,” Nate noted. “ _Cait, are you ready_?”

“ _No. But I ain’t ever gonna be. Just hit it_.”

“ _Initiating now_.”

Cait started screaming. Her wails rose to an alarming, high-pitched sound, amplified to horrifying levels from within what had to be a small, mostly metal room. MacCready spared a glance at Danse, who had gone shock-still. Cold beads of sweat popped up on MacCready’s forehead as he ran a nervous hand over his mouth, his facial hair prickling his fingers. _Goddanggit._ Cait’s screaming went on for what seemed like an eternity, devolving into pitiful whimpers as MacCready tensely waiting for someone to say something.

“ _Mademoiselle, Cait. How are you feeling_?”

Heavy, uneven breathing. “ _I feel… I feel like… like a damn bag’s been pulled off me head. Hell, lookit this… my hands ain’t shakin’_.”

“ _Please, allow me to do a brief physical examination. Look at me_.” Whatever study Curie undertook, it didn’t involve speaking. Male voices conferred in hushed tones too quiet to make out. Several tense moments passed before Curie said, “ _Female subject appears to have had a fully successful recovery_.”

MacCready punched the air in celebration and let loose a short laugh. Sanctuary was going to be a less dour place without Cait’s stressed attitude bringing morale down. And bringing MacCready down. She’d grown on him, the two questionable characters in a sea of do-gooders. Their developing relationship had been strained by needs – her chems and his caps. Steady employment through both Nate and Goodneighbor had kept MacCready afloat, but Cait… she’d been circling the drain for some time. She seemed to be humiliated that she wasn’t in control herself. She hadn’t told MacCready of her plans to get clean, and he certainly hoped that she wasn’t doing it for _him_ – whatever was brewing between them didn’t exactly seem shelf-stable – but he was relieved that there seemed to finally be an end to her pain and, hopefully, her anger.

“ _Second subject_ ,” Curie’s voice came back on over the speakers. “ _Male ghoul, age thirty-four, beginning procedure_.”

Danse stood straight up, his mouth hanging open. MacCready caught his eye and they stared at each other, stunned. MacCready was glad that he hadn’t gone with Nate’s group – sobriety seemed to be airborne.

“ _Okay, bud. Here we go_ ,” Nate said.

If MacCready had thought that Cait’s screaming had been impressive, John’s cries surpassed hers on every level. It sounded like he was being electrocuted. Over the line from 95, a series of circuitry pops sounded in the background, and an alarm began blaring.

“ _SUBJECT INCOMPATIBLE_ ,” a mechanized voice warned. “ _SYSTEM FAILURE IMMINENT_.”

“ _Shit! Pull him out of it_!” Nate yelled. “ _Disconnect everything! Cut the wires_!”

A short gasp caught in Danse’s throat as he stared engrossed at the speakers through wide, panicked eyes. He gripped the back of his chair so tightly that veins and tendons popped out on his hands.

There were a few moments of disjointed scurrying and noise as the rest of the group talked over each other, shouting commands until the alarm died. John’s distinctive, guttural voice bellowed in the silence that followed. For one terrifying instant, MacCready feared that John had been lost, forced into a feral state. Then, John’s unmistakable voice cursed, “ _Fuck_!”

“ _Damn._ _Looks like you broke it_ ,” said Cait.

_“John… Jesus,” Nate breathed. “Are you okay?”_

“ _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! FUCK_!” was John’s singular response.

Curie gave an additional note. “ _Second attempt, failed. It appears that the detoxification systems within this vault are not compatible with anything other than basic human subjects. This trial is completed.”_

The wording on the terminal screen shimmered, pixels altering until it read, _Connection terminated_.

A shuddering sigh broke free, and Danse sank down to sit on the desk, his head hanging, chin almost to his heaving chest. MacCready found it odd that he looked so distressed over a ghoul that he hadn’t done more than sneer at. Except… Danse had left Sanctuary the same time John and Valentine had, and he appeared to be living in Goodneighbor now. He’d spotted the chain John wore around his neck, and the bright blue of the tags embossed in the metal.

Though Danse would cave his face in with a fist if he was wrong, MacCready took a leap. “Are you boning my mayor?” Danse jerked his gaze up, his distressed face turning confused, then shocked. “Or… I don’t know how it works,” MacCready continued, scratching behind one ear. “Is he boning you?”

Danse’s face went from pink to green to white. “I… that’s… we’re…” He tore his eyes away, looking as guilty as Dogmeat had when MacCready caught the shepherd chewing his hat.

“Wow.” MacCready blinked, stunned that he was right. “You are. No wonder you’re in hiding. Water cooler talk on that airship of yours must be awkward. ‘ _Hey, how’s your shriveled, ghoul lover?’ ‘Fine, thanks. Kill any of his kind today_?’”

“I’m no longer employed by the Brotherhood,” Danse informed with a flat voice.

“They tossed you out for that, huh?” MacCready said, leaning back in his chair and lacing fingers over his chest. “Guess you should have expected it.”

Though he swallowed hard, Danse refused to contradict him.

“Well… you just better not be wasting his time,” MacCready said, finding himself sliding into a paternal role, something that he had been defaulting to as of late. “He’s not as promiscuous as he seems. And he’s, well, in a delicate condition.”

Danse nodded and seemed to breathe easier. “I am well aware of John’s traits. And no, my affections are not conditional.”

“Good, ‘cause if you’re using him to blow off steam and he finds out, good luck.”

Giving a gruff snort, Danse countered, “I don’t see how this is your business.” Something in his eyes shifted, sharpening, taking precautions against being cornered. 

MacCready lifted a shoulder, feigning ease. In a fight with Danse, he wouldn’t just lose, he would _super-lose_. The guy was a tank.“Whoa, man. Live your life. That’s the Goodneighbor creed.” MacCready leaned back in the chair, putting his feet up once more. “Sorry you, like, lost your bros. Life can suck as a soldier sometimes. I get that. All hard work and no free time. Gets tiring.”

Raising a thick eyebrow, Danse disputed, “Mercenaries and soldiers are not equivalent to one another.”

MacCready folded his arms across his chest and shrugged. “They both serve as militia where people trade in their lives. Yours for honor, mine for caps.” And, yeah, he’d totally served his time as a soldier. Kinda. Sorta. Although he hadn’t been with the Gunners long, it had been long enough. He had been brought on as a conscript during a draft of snipers. Since the job had been right up his alley, he’d taken the contract without question, the promise of sending caps home too good to pass up. “There’s only so much glory in doing dirty work for those above you. You seriously telling me you’ve never regretted following an order?” he asked.

Shaking his head, Danse answered, “Never. I had faith in my superiors. I was exemplary.”

“Jesus. Listen to you. _Never_? Really?” Disgust crawled through his belly. Gunner work was simple – a steady flow of caps for services rendered. Surely, the Brotherhood was made of people, people that knew they were fighting a hollow battle, but the perks were just too damn – too darn good to pass up. “All the fighting you’ve seen. All the ridiculous death and grandstanding and you still backed them up? They sure buy souls cheap in the Brotherhood, don’t they?”

Danse gave a fierce scowl. “I won’t be drawn into a moral debate with an assassin.”

That word made MacCready seethe. _Assassin._ It sounded tawdry and shameful. But that’s what he was. He had foolishly thought the joining with the Gunners would be easy work, fun even. From far enough away, the people he killed had no stories, no lives, just faces in a scope. While he never fully integrated into their group, that was fine. He hadn’t enlisted to make friends. He did his job and kept to himself, distancing both his victims and his cohorts. Everyone since was too preoccupied by their own lives to notice the layer of Gunner-green clothing he still wore to this day. Decent, comfortable clothes were hard to come by.  Everything he owned, with the exception of Lucy’s watch, the toy soldier, and a worn duster striped from the corpse of a dead feral ghoul, had been issued to him by his Gunner commander. “There’s a stark difference between who I am and what I do,” he said, pride leading him to defend himself.

“Is there?” Danse mocked, wearing an impressive scowl. “You seem to relish any opportunity for violence.”

“Sure as hell didn’t relish Quincy,” MacCready muttered before he could catch himself. _Fuck. Shit. Idiot._

It was too late to recall that comment, and Danse narrowed his eyes. “What would you know about Quincy?” he asked, the accusation clear in his voice.

“What would _you_ know?” Mac countered, sliding his feet off the desk and back down to the floor.

“I had Colonel Garvey brief me when I first arrived in Sanctuary. Accounts of the siege seemed prudent on behalf on Commonwealth affairs.”

 _Goddamn thorough Danse,_ MacCready thought _, digging into everyone’s business on behalf of the Brotherhood. “_ Look, the whole platoon rolled down there, I didn’t have a say in it. I didn’t even know why we were there. Couldn’t see anything over the barricades.”

True, he hadn’t seen anything over the blockages, but the overpass… he saw plenty from up there. He had been one of the first to climb up that concrete ramp, the conscript snipers brought in for the specific reason of shooting down into the streets of Quincy.

“You partook in the attack?” Danse asked. Although he still sat on the desk, his brown eyes probed MacCready’s blue ones.

“It… Hey, I was doing a _job_. One of the few things in this world I’m actually good at.” MacCready insisted, palms pressed flat against the lip of the desk. His heart pounded. It was like he was there all over again, the cracks of energy blasts and bullets filling the night sky, the smell of smoke as the blockades were burned, both Gunners and Minutemen barking orders, and the screaming of those dying on the ground below. “There was some kid running around in the streets, so excited to see those idiots in the hats,” MacCready recounted, his gaze drifting. The writing on the mug looked cartoonish in contrast with his memories of the Quincy Massacre. “Like they ever stood a chance.”

Danse’s voice was low as he said, “The Long’s son?”

MacCready snorted. “Who lets a kid wander around at night during a stand-off? If that had been my son…” He couldn’t finish that sentence. He reached to grip the overseer’s mug tightly in one hand, the image of Duncan in place of the Long’s son burning into his brain. “No kid should end up like that, shot through the leg to die slow.”

Frowning, Danse’s brows lowered. “You just told me that your visuals were compromised. How did you know where he was shot?”

MacCready’s eyes snapped up, his pulse pounding in his neck. Time seemed to freeze. He recalled the snapping sound of a round being chambered in his rifle, spread out on his belly on the overpass above Quincy. His sights had been set on a man with a laser musket near the church. When a bullet sailed past his cheek as he fired, the image in the scope had blurred and his target had been lost. Only when he had pulled his binoculars had he seen the aftermath of what had happened. The little boy lay in the street, struck by MacCready’s bullet instead of the man in front of him. His career with the Gunners had ended in a single shot. In the pandemonium of the fighting, he’d had slunk away, running from the incident and heading straight for the asylum of Goodneighbor.

Caught in his lie, MacCready panicked and crashed the overseer’s mug over Danse’s head. Launching to his feet, he threw himself into a run, headed for the passage than would lead him out of the vault and straight to any caravan heading south. As he passed a bulkhead, a heavy weight slammed into him, forcing him to collide with a cold, steel wall. Danse spun him around, grasped him by the collar and slammed him against the corridor. Danse was as strong as he looked, and so tall that MacCready’s feet left the floor.

All his carefully placed cards had come tumbling down in one careless moment. Sanctuary was the kind of place he could retire to. The kind of place he could raise a family…  Duncan. What would happen to Duncan if he was imprisoned or executed? He would rather be dead having masqueraded as a hero than alive and be known as a child-killer.

“Don’t…” he choked out. He grabbed at Danse’s arms, leveraging himself.

“Don’t _what_?” Danse snarled, arms like solid iron. 

“Don’t tell his folks,” MacCready begged, near to tears. “I didn’t mean to! He came outta nowhere! It happened so fast! Fuck! I shouldn’t have been there! I should have never left the Capital! It’s eating me to be here, looking everyone in the face and pretending I wasn’t a part of that. I don’t hurt kids! I swear to God, I don’t hurt _kids_!”

Danse huffed, his expression bitter as he wrestled with his decision. Slowly, he lowered MacCready back to the ground. With stern eyes, he said, “I understand being caught up in battles that you did not initiate. I understand taking orders that you later learn to question. I understand, and _believe_ , that what you did in Quincy was an accident. It is not my place to judge you, nor pass a convicting verdict.” After a deep sigh, he added, “To be clear, I only subdued you because you made a very ignorant move to attack me with ceramic. Had you remained calm, this confrontation could have been avoided.”

All MacCready’s relief came rushing out in one extended exhalation. MacCready stepped back, asking, “Is, uh… is this between us then?”

“Until a point where I deem this information prudent to share, yes. You are not a threat to this settlement. Condemning you would only cost us manpower.”

It seemed that was the best answer MacCready was going to get. He nodded and gulped, compelling his heartbeat to normalize. “Hey, uh, Danse,” he wheezed. “Thanks for being a stand-up human being. I guess everybody’s wrong about you, huh?”

Something about MacCready’s statement made Danse’s face slack and pale slightly. He jerked a nod and stalked out of the vault, leaving MacCready alone with his demons.

Walking back to the desk, MacCready sat down and plucked Lucy’s bullet from his cap. He tapped it on the desk a few times and began spinning it, staring past it, charting mistakes and bad choices. The list was considerable.


	4. Enough

DANSE

Sanctuary Hills, MA

April 13th, 2288

An impromptu celebration had popped up when the group from Vault 95 returned that evening. The festivities were held on the exposed foundation of a house that stood next to Sturges’ carport workshop. Yesterday’s greatest hits played over the radio in a loop. A bonfire, far from any vegetation, crackled happily. A grinning Cait was being passed around the settlement, going from one set of arms to another before landing in MacCready’s embrace and refusing to part with him. Paladin Sterling made his rounds, checking on his charges, exchanging handshakes and smiles while Codsworth passed out beverages. Enjoying the bustle of excitement, Dogmeat slid between shins, tongue lolling and tail wagging. On the porch of the workshop, John sat alone with a beer in his hand, mouth set in a straight line, sunken eyes downcast, one hand wrapped around his knee, back curved in a mournful slump.

Just out of reach of the firelight, Danse stood off to one side, leaning against a wooden pole that had a copper bell suspended from its top. Although he longed to sweep miserable-looking John into a fierce, protective hug, he refrained, letting distance shield them from discovery. He imagined an irrational reality where he would actually be able to act on his longing, to be beside John with an arm draped over his shoulder, in the same manner that MacCready was standing with Cait. He was touched and stunned that John had even attempted being cured and felt inherently awful that the endeavor had been unsuccessful. Trying to catch John’s eye was failing and, against logic, Danse took a step towards him.

“Danse!” someone shouted. He took a step in reverse, ending up back when he had been, and swiveled his head to see Sterling motioning at him from within the crowd. “Don’t disappear,” Sterling called. “I’ll need you later.” Danse nodded and looked back to John, who appeared to have shaken off his sulk and was now integrating with the group, raising his beer to Cait in a toast that lacked mirth.

To look at Sanctuary, it seemed as if nothing had changed, and yet, for Danse, everything was different. Over five months ago, he had come here as a noble representative of the largest military organization in the Wasteland. That role had been short-lived, ending when the reality of his identity as a synth had been revealed to him. He had largely been on the move since then, avoiding Brotherhood depots and adopting new lifestyles. For a brief, sweet moment, he had thought that he might have had a future in Acadia before the events in Far Harbor removed that as an option.

The only upside to Goodneighbor was proximity to John. Yes, work was consistent, but he felt too far removed from the habits of Goodneighbor citizens. Subjected to a rigid sense of order and a consistent code of ethics for the entirety of his adult life made Goodneighbor seemed like a pit of pure chaos and mischief in comparison. Years ago, he had been assigned to oversee a drunk tank at the Capital for a few shifts – that sorry state of exposure to the worst of humanity’s degradation was present every day for him now. Why John allowed populism to run rampant through the streets made little sense, seeming almost as if he had given up on bettering the town and was contended to play to role of the jaded rebel living a lackluster life of chems, drink and inaction. John was a better strategist than he let on, smarter than most Wastelanders, and took inspiration from great leaders of the past. He was meant for bigger things.

Someone jostled Danse from behind, colliding with his shoulder. “You ever gonna actually tell anyone you’re a synth?” Deacon asked, handing him a bottle of Stevenson brand whiskey, Danse’s preferred type. He considered asking Deacon about the lengths he had gone to find out about the drink, but he bit his lip and thought it best to be accepting instead of suspicious. “Lurking in darkness won’t make people learn to trust you. I should know,” Deacon said, the camp fires causing orange balls of light to reflect off his glasses. He had a beer in his hand, although the cap was still on. “It’s not my job to out you, but word came down from Acadia about a ghoul and a big, military-type guy that got caught up in a firestorm. That’s not exactly flying under the radar. And it’d be nice to know that Nick died for reason.”

Danse felt a stab at the mention of Valentine’s name. He tapped the whiskey bottle against his leg. “I’d… assumed I’d know when the time was right.”

Shrugging one shoulder, Deacon said, “Don’t know if there ever really is a right time to tell people that you aren’t who they think you are. I mean, not that I’d know anything about that.” He spread his arms and walked backwards into the revelry. “Everyone already knows that I’m the Dread Pirate Roberts.”

Although Danse kept the whiskey bottle on him for the remainder of the evening, he rarely drank from it. He stuck to the outskirts, wandering in long, slow circles as his thoughts raced. From the shadows, Danse wondered if anyone looked at him too closely, would they know? Could they see through him, right down to his lies? He knew that was impossible. He had gone a decade without anyone suspecting he was a synth, without knowing it himself. But it was more than his construction that bothered him. Were there countless synths out there in the Commonwealth right now, estranging themselves from their communities, struggling to find the words to tell those that knew them that they were imposters? The likelihood of that scenario left Danse aghast. He was part of a race that he knew nothing about. Kasumi… Kasumi was going to be his guide… his new sister…

The night was warm with no breeze and, between the bonfire, cooking stations and the dancing that had started up, the temperature in the communal square was rising. Voices got louder the more people drank, and by the time the radio was going into its fourth round of the same songs, Danse felt like he was suffocating. His chest had gone tight and a warm flush was creeping up his neck, setting his ears on fire. Anxiety charged through his system, and he slammed the bottom of the whiskey bottle down on a workshop table.

Enough. Enough lying and misdirection. There were certain things that a man had to take responsibly for, and Danse’s very presence put the people of Sanctuary at risk. Harboring him could be the catalyst for an open war with the Brotherhood. He couldn’t abide by that. Steeling himself, he strode into the open-aired carport where Sterling kept his armor – _Danse’s armor_ – and switched the radio off.

Voices dropped when the music died. A few confused mutterings floated here and there as all eyes turned to Danse. His lungs heaved, and he rubbed at his beard growth, wishing he had drunk more. That, perhaps, might have helped him blurt out what he needed to say and be done with it. But everyone was already gathered, and he didn’t trust his nerve to wait for a better time. He saw John shove his way to the front of the crowd. His gold eyes wide, he shook his head slightly and mouthed, _What are you doing_?

Danse gave a shaky exhalation and forced himself to take a deep breath. He felt eyes crawling all over him. “I’ve never been very good at addressing crowds, so you’ll have to forgive me if my manner is less than eloquent.” He cast a quick glance at the armor standing proudly by his side. The sight of it stabbed him right in the heart. “You’ve all likely noticed that several months have passed since I’ve spoken for or partaken in events regarding the Brotherhood of Steel.” He paused, his nerve threatening to leave him. In the gathering, he saw Sterling fold his arms. “This is because I am no longer a part of their operation.”

As he let that information sink in, Piper nudged Garvey, saying, “Called it.”

Danse licked dry lips and kept going. “This was not a decision that I made, but rather was forced upon me for a very specific reason.” The sound of his heartbeat pounded his eardrums. He longed for John’s hand in his, for the sturdy reassurance that his presence offered. But that was a public luxury he couldn’t afford, not in Sanctuary, not anywhere, not ever. Danse let his head hang for a moment before looking up and saying, “It was brought to my attention that I am, in a fact, a synth unit.”

Silence. The only sound in Sanctuary was the crackling of burning wood and the whir of Codsworth’s motors. Expressions of befuddled shock slid from face to face.

Danse hadn’t planned for anything past this point and now found himself scrambling for words. “I… I feel that you should know I… I didn’t _replace_ anyone. I didn’t deliberately mislead you. Though I… suppose that no synth did.” He searched the mass of faces, knowing that his ignorance and single-mindedness had done many of them wrong. “But I understand now. This life. This… _fear_ of being prosecuted. I have no doubt that I deserve it. But all my former offenses were because of who I was, never due to how I was made or who programmed me.” He wanted someone to say something, anything at all to spare him from having to keep speaking. “I just… felt that it was time you knew.” He gave another heavy exhale and shuffled in place.

MacCready gave a low whistle and several people parted in front of him, leaving a clean trail between him and Danse. “Man,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “You are goddamned lucky.”

Danse felt a surge of unease, a shift in the air, as if things were about to go very wrong. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you are _godDAMNED lucky_ ,” MacCready repeated, his voice raising. “Lucky that this happened to _you,_ that is. If anyone else turned out to be a synth… Hell, if it’d been m _e_ , you would have been the first in line to shoot me in the head.”

Danse clenched his jaw and remained silent. What MacCready had said was the absolute truth. He would have put the culprit down at first discovery.

“Wanna know the kicker?” MacCready asked, looking livid. “You kept this from us. You knew and you just… decided it didn’t matter. Like what we didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt us. Acted just like any other synth would, hiding and laughing at the stupid humans that trusted it.”

John moved into the funnel of bodies, putting himself between Danse and MacCready. “That ain’t what happened,” he snarled, beer bottle gone, his fists balled, his back to Danse.

He should have expected this, should have anticipated that a percentage of the Sanctuary crew would refuse to accept him. It still hurt. “MacCready,” Danse implored. “I couldn’t… I didn’t know what to say. Perhaps I chose poorly, but I –”

“Christ,” MacCready snapped at John, flinging a hand at Danse in a wild gesture. “Is that why you’re fucking it? Out of pity?”

Faint whispers slithered through the group as Danse felt a hot flush claim his face and rush down his back. MacCready, his ally, whom hours ago he had vouched for, had crossed a line, spouting hateful comments and insulting John. Never in his life had he felt so unjustly betrayed. It seemed as if the very air shattered, razor-sharp shards piercing his factory-sewn flesh as his carefully constructed walls were blasted to powder in a single moment. In the back of the crowd, Danse spotted Curie wringing her hands, eyes darting around nervously. It dawned on him that she was the only other synth in Sanctuary. If events were to turn ugly, she would likely get caught up in the same bias that would be directed at him. 

John’s posture bowed for an instant before he squared his shoulders and growled, “Watch your damn mouth, Robert. After all I’ve given you… After all the times I’ve stuck my neck out to back you up, you throw this back at me?”

“Jeez, look at you. You knew!” MacCready spat. “You knew longer than anyone and you kept it a secret. Like we’re a bunch of damn morons that would just –”

“– Act the same way that you’re doing right now?” John snarled. “Yeah, crossed my mind.”

Leaving the covered area of the carport, Danse nudged past John, warily approaching MacCready as he would a nervous dog, saying, “Everything that I said in the vault today, that was my decision. No one made me say or do anything I didn’t want to.” Cait appeared at MacCready’s side, her bat in hand. The addition of a weapon to this discussion set off alarms in his head and sent his body into preparations for an altercation. He stood taller, with slacked knees, tension rounding his shoulders. “MacCready, this is still me,” he implored, his hands floating upwards in surrender. “I haven’t changed.”

“Hell, the old you was a monumental asshole who didn’t give two shites about any one of us,” Cait deliberately pointed out. “Some comfort if we’re in for more the same while waitin’ for the Institute to flip some switch and have ya kill us all in our beds.”

“I have no reason to assume I’m a threat.” Danse’s hands were still in the air. “Look, I understand that this is a shock to you. Believe me that I am still adjusting.” He extended a hand, imploring that MacCready shake his, that they might reach an agreement. “Hate me for who I am, not because of _what_ I am.”

Recoiling from Danse’s open palm, MacCready spouted, “What you are is a true-to-God, literal monster.”

Cait shoved the head of her bat at Danse’ chest. “Don’t you fackin’ touch neither of us, _synth_. Ya best be headin’ back to whatever the hell you’ve been hiding out. You ain’t welcome here.”

“Both of you stop it!” Sterling thundered, soaking up attention. Anger blazed in his dark eyes as he glowered at MacCready and Cait. That was the thing about Sterling – he was a pleasant man with old world sensibilities, sarcastic and silly at times, but, when pushed, could be downright terrifying, that pre-war military training giving him an authoritative edge. “Grab some air. And if you decide that this is something too difficult for you to overcome, you can keep walking.”

Butting in, Deacon gently pushed Cait’s bat away. “See? This is why we can’t have nice things – like friends. And I’m not gonna to stand for any synthshaming on my watch.”

“Course you’d get in on this nonsense, Deacon,” Cait hissed, swinging her bat in loose circles at her side. “That thing’s more interesting than all of us to you. When it’s burnin’ this place to the ground, hope ya stop to have a good laugh.”

“C’mon, man,” MacCready shouted at Sterling. “Dude’s a synth and you’re defending it? Fine.” He put a hand on Cait’s shoulder and pulled her away from the crowd. “I’m not getting killed because the rest of you want to play make believe. We’re outta here.” With that, he left the group, guiding Cait away as they both vanished beyond the throw of the firelight, melting into the night.

Guilt sank deeply into Danse’s chest. The already strained band of survivors in Sanctuary had just lost two of its best fighters because of him. He had only wished to be candid and keep those that he knew and trusted abreast of what was happening. This was likely to be his life now – facing the possibility that anyone he met would be eager to kill him based on principle alone.  He was exceptionally glad that he hadn’t chosen to bring this information up in the vault today. With no one to interfere, the sniper would have left a smoking hole in his body.

A festive mood successfully ruined, all of Sterling’s friends and settlers departed, all chatting quietly as they left. The sensation of fingertips against Dane’s back made him turn. John stood behind him, echoes of firelight dancing in his golden eyes. Distress gave way to need, and Danse wrapped his arms around John’s frail shoulders. There was no more room or reason for shame. In one fell swoop, all his secrets had been laid bare. “I’m sorry your treatment was unsuccessful,” he said into the shell of John’s ear, holding him tight. “But I am so very proud of you for trying.”

John’s arms slid around his waist. “Proud of you, too.” He breathed a quiet laugh. “What are you gonna do now that you don’t have to hide anymore?”

He pressed his cheek to John’s. The gnarled skin felt hot and soothing against his face. “Catch up on all of the time I’ve lost with you,” Danse answered. They both tightened their arms around the other. Danse didn’t know how their discovery would affect their roles in Sanctuary. Would Sterling, with his old-world sensibilities, force Danse and John to leave out of disgust over his sexual conduct? Sever ties with them entirely? Was Goodenighbor the only place Danse would be welcome from now on? In the absence of answers, he clung to John.

Down the road, Danse heard Deacon cough loudly, garnering attention. “So, to anybody that placed bets on the cause of our paladin’s removal – I’d like to collect now. That’s what you get for not believing me.”


	5. The Blue House

NATE

Sanctuary Hills, MA

April 13th, 2288

Nate tried so hard not be proud, but the sheer scope and scale of what Sanctuary had become left him swollen with satisfaction. New homes and patched walls gave solace to the people who now lived here, and daily tasks, no matter how nominal, gave each day meaning. Yet, standing in the light of the bonfire, watching the departing backs of his settlers and friends, Nate felt a creeping wave of exhaustion roll over him. Weary to his bones, his posture drooped, letting his fearless-leader façade bleed away.

He hadn’t intended for his military service to be a life-long commitment. The war had ended, and he’d been able to go home. But war – _this_ war – was endless. Six months ago, Nate never would have believed that the next sweeping conflict would be fought in the streets of his hometown, the resistance spearheaded by a ragtag bunch of misfits pulled from all different walks of life. Well… six months for him, two-hundred-and-ten years for everyone else. In the time he had spent learning to adjust to this new world, he had concluded that nations at war, no matter when or where, remained largely the same. There were fanatics – those supported by enormous armies with conquest as their goal – and survivors –those whom were fortunate enough to defend their homes and keep their families close.

When Nate first emerged into the desolate expanse of the Wasteland, he had clung desperately to anyone that seemed in a position to assist him. His son, his son, _his son_. All thoughts had been on the swift retrieval of his infant. He had assembled a collection of characters, all with different strengths, for easy access, an army ready to go at a moment’s notice. They were all free to go, of course, but most had no place to call their own, so they remained at Nate’s beck-and-call. He began to wonder if he had been plucking people out of their lives and holding them hostage while he struggled to sort out his own affairs. At any given moment, if was difficult for Nate to pinpoint exactly who he was supposed to be. General. Paladin. Fixer. Father…

Still stinging over the loss of Valentine, Nate had taken over the old synth’s work at the agency, while simultaneously juggling demands from all four regional factions. The loss of Nick was palpable. He was the only person that Nate would have confided in. _By the by, my son – yeah, the same one we’ve been combing the Commonwealth for – is planning to kill us all_. The entire concept was too ludicrous for most to process, and Nate would have relied on the old dick’s council.

Danse wasn’t the only one harboring secrets. If anyone in the Commonwealth knew about Nate’s connection to the Institute, particularly his connection to its director, he would become an instant target instead of some dismissible troublemaker in a skintight jumpsuit. He was gently treading his role at the Institute, gathering information without leaving the Commonwealth in shambles. The Railroad was noble in their own way, and the Minutemen provided immediate support but, blame it on his time spent in the military, Nate favored the firepower that the Brotherhood promised. When the final battle began, it would be the Brotherhood that persevered. Now, without Danse’s membership, Nate’s role within the ranks of the Brotherhood of Steel was more important than ever. Some difficult decisions were on their way.

As the rest of the community dispersed, he watched Danse and John embrace and was utterly speechless, chagrined for having overlooked their pairing. Now, he understood. John had been the one to intercept Danse at Liberty Isle prior to Nate’s arrival. In Danse’s darkest moment, John had been the one he turned to. And it appeared that the ghoul been on Danse’s side for quite some time while Nate went about his quests preoccupied. Nate wondered what else had slipped his attention while he strode the Wasteland, Dogmeat at his side. His dog was the safe choice. He would keep Nate’s secrets of where he had been, who he had been helping and, when Nate would return from the Institute close to tears, asked no questions.

The mechanical whizzing of motors drew Nate’s attention. He stepped to one side of the foundation, allowing Codsworth passage to collect discarded cups and bottles that rolled across the slab, dropped as partygoers had made an uncomfortable retreat. “Pardon me, Sir,” the robot entreated, chasing a rolling bottle, pincher extended. Nate smiled and clapped him fondly on the orb of his head as he floated by. Thank goodness for Codsworth. Nate often feared that he would have descended into madness had his old Mr. Handy not been present to greet him when he emerged from the hellish vault that stole his family. In a world where everything had been turned upside down, Codsworth’s presence was constant, the singular intact reminder of his old life.

“Hey, buddy,” said Nate. “We may not always remember to say it but thanks for always keeping the lights on for us and making this a place we can call home.” It was the little things that mattered, small tastes of the way life had been – clean clothes and ice cubes and keeping the dust at bay over the workstations – that ensured that Sanctuary remained Nate’s home, despite painful reminders of what he had lost still fresh in his mind.

“Oh, Mr. Nate.” Codsworth fussed, sounding like he would blush if he could. “I am simply honored to be able to carry out my function at easing your burdens. Such is my purpose, after all.”

He gave the robot a second pat and craned his neck, searching for Danse. The area was empty, he and Codsworth the last to remain. Nate had some actions to atone for and was glad to be back in his vault suit instead of his Brotherhood uniform. It was Nate’s fault that the Brotherhood had uncovered Danse’s identity; he had freely given them access to any information that they requested, handing over access codes and holotapes full of details he hadn’t bothered checking. He felt awful for Danse, enduring the loss of a lifetime’s worth of effort. Danse was the only person he knew to have had his life stripped away as suddenly as Nate’s had been, and perhaps this would be the issue that reunited them. He’d like that, to have the company of another solider striving to start over after losing everything. It gave Nate hope, and he began strolling towards Danse’s Sanctuary abode.

Nate had only been above ground for a few days when he accidentally tuned in to a military frequency. Rushing to assist, he had turned a corner in Cambridge and found himself back in Alaska, barricades and armor and the familiar jargon of military lingo. Nate had never expected to see someone in power armor again, and Danse was someone that he could have been close to had they spent more time together. Out of everyone that Nate had managed to accumulate in his suburb, Danse’s background had been the most like his – the voluntary soldier with stars in his eyes about the virtue of his republic.

Heading up the cul-de-sac, Nate found Danse lingering in the doorway of the blue house, the fire barrel on the porch washing the area with warm light. John was up on his toes, pressing his lips to the scar over Danse’s brow. Each grasped the other’s arms, the metal of John’s rings glinting in the firelight. It was such a private, gentle moment that Nate felt instantly hot in the face and uncomfortable. He averted his eyes. Of course he was uneasy. He had never witnessed two men share intimacy before. Such things weren’t talked about before the bombs, or even allowed in some regions. John’s sexuality didn’t come as a surprise; he’d had to stop taking the ghoul to settlements, as too many people wanted into his pants and it made for awkward trade negotiations. But for reserved, disciplined Danse, this seemed unprecedented. Aboard the Prydwen, Nate had once teasingly asking Danse if he’d ever smuggled a woman into his quarters, to which Danse had tersely responded, “ _Negative. Never._ ” At the time, Nate had been trying to rattle Danse’s cage, to force some aspect of humanity to the surface. Now, he knew that Danse had given him the truth.

The rise and fall of discreet voices made Nate look up. Having left Danse in the doorway of his house, John was striding to the opposite side of the street. He noticed Nate and tossed him a mock salute before disappearing between the houses.

Approaching the blue house, Nate asked, “Where’s he off to?”

“Back to Goodneighbor. Fahrenheit has been quite irritated by his constant leaving. I understand her concern.”

Nate nodded while trying to read Danse’s expression. He had a tired, resigned look of adulation, gazing off to where John had vanished into the night. “Is that where you’ve been this whole time?” Nate asked, feeling awful for not knowing the answer to his question. When had his friends started slipping through his fingers?

“For several weeks, yes,” Danse responded, sliding into his home.

Nate lingered by the doorway, unsure of how to start this conversation, of how to fix the neglect he had been giving his old sponsor. The fire barrel outside cast just enough light to give an orange outline to the interior. The rest of the building was illuminated by moonlight flowing in through the broken windows. Danse’s house was one of the neatest on the block. Although he spent a great deal of time away from Sanctuary, he liked to come back to an orderly home. “Hey, Danse,” Nate began, brushing a finger over peeling paint. “Don’t stew over Whiny MacBuzzkill’s comments. He doesn’t speak for everyone.”

“I don’t intend to,” Danse said, heaving himself up to sit on the kitchen island’s countertop. Several alcohol bottles, some empty, some partly full, stood upright beside him. He took hold of one of the bottles and stared into it. “His was a reaction that I should have prepared for. And nothing he said was incorrect.” He dejectedly tapped the calloused pad of his index finger against the bottle. “Will I have to leave?” he asked, lifting his gaze.

Nate was startled. “What? No!” he blurted, and crossed the threshold to look Danse square in the eye. “No, of course not. Danse –” Goddammit. Nate didn’t even know the man’s first name. “–is that why you didn’t tell me? Was… this a test? To see if I’d stay loyal to the Brotherhood even if I knew you were a synth?”

Danse shook his head. “I didn’t know. I swear it. If I had, I wouldn’t have said half the things I told you. I was wrong. And foolish. I’m… glad you retained your own judgments.”

Remembering Danse’s ultimate surrender at Liberty Isle, Nate said, “I’ll bet.” In hindsight, duh, of course Danse was a synth. His eccentric sentence structures were as if someone had programmed human speech in only broad strokes, without bothering with nuance or modern Wasteland slang. If this was a default setting, no wonder Shaun equated synths to Nuka-Cola vending machines.

Danse squirmed and took a swig from the bottle, looking so uneasy that Nate scrambled to change the topic. He clapped his hands behind his back at relaxed attention. “So, um… you and Hancock. That’s a thing now?”

A crease appeared between Danse’s brows. “Please don’t refer to him by that name. That isn’t how I know him. He’s just John.”

Nate paused for a moment, evaluating Danse’s reaction. It was a startlingly casual comment for someone so withdrawn. Sure, he’d clued Nate in on his background with Haylen and his former vendor partner, some man in Rivet City, but a sturdy wall still stood between them. “We don’t have to discuss him if it makes you uncomfortable. I won’t insist. I just…” Nate shuffled and blew a sigh. “Well, I feel like shit. I’ve got a ton of people counting on me and I hate letting anyone down. After Maxson told me about… I should have been there for you and I wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

Danse’s shoulders slumped a little and he dropped his gaze. “You shouldn’t hold yourself accountable for events beyond your control. And I… I’ve never discussed John with anyone except for Haylen.”

“Haylen knew about you two?” Nate nudged the bottles aside and pushed himself onto the island to sit next to Danse.

“For a time, but only in vague details,” Danse answered, lost down the mouth of the bottle again. “I didn’t have many friends at the Citadel, and none that I would have been frank with besides her. Most of my bonds were established after being assigned to the Prydwen.”

“Citadel…” Nate’s brain rushed to connect the pieces of information that he had been given. “You… you knew him before you came to the Commonwealth. Shit… Danse did you know him when he was _human_?” Danse had been responsible for the formation of Nate’s initial opinions about ghouls. John had been the first one that hadn’t tried to eat Nate’s face, and made him realize the vast differences in current Commonwealth society.

“He _is_ human,” Danse said, with an indignant expression. “What happened to him… it’s just skin.” Nate felts a rush of embarrassment to have Danse, of all people, point that out. “His appearance is just… penance for my allowing for our relationship to deteriorate.”

That sounded particularly callous. “Danse, I doubt that it’s _penance_ for him.”

“No, I… I didn’t mean…” Danse babbled, flustered. “It’s just that I don’t have the right to be petty.” He spared a glance at Nate before looking away. “I worry that I will always be repulsed by the sight of him, that this is something beyond my control. That my Brotherhood programming is just too strong. That no matter how much I want to, this is something that I will never overcome. And I hate myself for it.” Danse gave a short exhalation, somewhere between a snort and a sigh, and took another sip. “When I was still stationed in the Capital, he may have kept me alive. In dire situations, I fought harder. The thought of him waiting while I lay dying or dead was… painful. I couldn’t do that to him. I had to survive.” 

Nate brushed his fingers over the polished yellow gold of Nora’s wedding band where it hung on the same chain that held his Brotherhood holotags. He empathized. Fighting for _someone_ was a more powerful motivator than fighting for an ideal. While he had survived on the battlefield spurred on by the knowledge that Nora had been at home waiting for his safe return, it appeared that Danse had put John in a similar position.

A smarmy smile tugged at Nate’s mouth. “So, despite all your rhetoric about control and honor and self-restraint, he’s your type?”

Danse didn’t take his statement as lightly as he had hoped. Crossly, Danse declared, “Understand that John is an individual. I have never once been directly responsible for his actions. Whereas, what we do affects the Brotherhood as a whole. You and I have to remain representative at all times.”

Nate bit the inside of his cheek before reminding, “I do. Not you. Not anymore.”

Having gotten caught up in his reprimand, Danse paused before tightly saying, “Noted.”

Blowing air, Nate muttered, “Hey, I’m sorry. This… this is new territory for me. Should I… should I not send the two of you on missions together? Should I make sure that I _do_? I don’t really know how to handle, um… two people being _together_ from a tactical perspective.”

“Just… remain consistent,” Danse offered. “I’m sure that there are more couplings than you realize. Battle has a habit of drawing people closer. Intimate natures tend to follow.”

Cracking a grin, Nate leaned into him. “Hold me, Danse.”

“No,” Danse answered, nudging him away with an elbow. Nate cracked, a hissing laugh escaping through his teeth. Danse’s solemn expression changed to one of skeptical humor. “Look, I don’t have to agree with the way John lives his life to care about him,” Danse continued. “God knows that he didn’t agree with the way I lived mine.”

“Do you mean the Brotherhood?”

Nodding, Danse said, “My career what was eventually drove us apart. And… what I suppose brought us back together.” The harshness in his eyes softened. “He came for me. He was the first person that Haylen thought of when she found out about who… about _what_ I really am.”

Nate tapped his fingers against his knees before asking, “Are you happy?” Danse’s answer mattered. Nate’s negligence could be excused if his friends were doing all right.

Danse dipped his head. “I don’t recognize myself. The certainty in my life has been replaced with questions and tests. And John… I’m not sure why I’ve been deemed worthy of a second chance. How anyone could love me despite being both a machine and a failure, I’ll never understand.” A small, tight smile crept across his face. “But I am happy. Happy enough, I suppose. And I haven’t been for quite some time.” His eyes had a bright quality when he brought them up meet Nate’s. “He and I… we had a long, loving history.”

“Until?”

That cautious smile vanished. Danse tried to speak but failed, opening and closing his mouth a few times without words. He brought the bottle to his mouth for a long swig. Finally, he parted with, “Until we changed.” He closed up after that statement, his chest filling, his eyes hardening once more. “In spite of my misgivings, I don’t have the right to interfere in John’s mayoral conduct, nor to question it, though… I very much want to. I’m not real. I don’t… I’m not sure what I’m allowed to want.”

Nate fought a frown. He wasn’t sure if Danse clearly understood true happiness, the lightness of it, the freedom. But maybe, due to the Institute’s involvement, that wasn’t his fault. Nate gave him a pat on the back and hopped down from the counter. Since Danse was better off with directives than conversation, Nate revealed, “I’ve got a plan to use Brotherhood forces to deal a pretty significant blow to the Institute. And I need your help. I’ll bring you up to speed in the morning.”

“I don’t see how I’ll be able to assist,” Danse said, looking confused. “My presence will only make you an enemy of the Brotherhood.”

“Maybe,” Nate agreed, backing out the front door. He tossed Danse a wink. “If they knew it was you.”


	6. Inherent Side Effects

CAIT

Concord Water Tower, MA

April 13th, 2288

Cait shoved MacCready hard, his body slamming into metal with a solid bang that reverberated through the cramped interior of the water tower. “Jeez. Ow,” he rebuked, without blocking her.

Unapologetic, she pressed into him, hands tugging at his clothing. “Hell,” she cursed, struggling to pull his belts loose. “Why ya gotta have so much stuff strapped to ya?”

“Occupational necessity,” he said huskily as his rough palms slid over the bare skin of her shoulders.

She had to hand it to Nate – he certainly had amassed a collection of good-looking people, a veritable treasure-trove of eye candy. They could have been a family if she wanted, though the thought of family tasted like ash in her mouth. People were temporary, not to be relied on for long. She’d felt like a villain in this nest of chivalry, compassion beat out of her at a young age. But she had taken to the short, skinny rifleman. He had a sense of satirical humor about him, which she found stimulating. And he sure was less of a namby-pamby do-gooder then many of the others.

After Danse’s scandal had come to light during her sobriety party, she and MacCready retreated to the sniper’s elevated lair, leaving the rest of Sanctuary to rue its lenience towards synths and fools. The steel sphere of the water tower overlooking the Red Rocket station was confined and claustrophobic, two reasons MacCready seemed to have chosen it for. Something about small spaces comforted him, although too much time spent there gave Cait the restless sensation of being trapped in a box with no air. The tower was a short run down to a ridge that overlooked Sanctuary Hills, too far away to get caught up in a raid but close enough to provide support from a distance. A rope ladder that some intrepid raider had left years prior dangled between the internal pipes, enabling a short, narrow climb up to the ball. A narrow walkway circled the interior, caged in by a waist-high railing. Boxes of ammunition and spare weapons attachments took up a portion of the space – a nest of blankets, pillows and sleeping bags occupied another. The crimson glow of the vertical rocket at the fueling station was a blip in the distance, visible through the rusted proscenium of blast-loosened panels. Bright countryside starlight slipped in though the gaps to bathe them in a crystalline gleam.

She let MacCready kiss her, his fingers fumbling to open the front of her corset while she yanked her pants down. The lingering taste of cigarettes in his mouth, the light scratch of his nails as he palmed her breasts, and the cool crispness of spring air against her bare flesh that made her shiver left too many impressions for her taxed brain to handle.

Early that morning, she had awoken with the intent to reach for her next hit of Psycho, only to remember that she had disposed of her stash in preparation for the trip to Vault 95. Now, without a haze of chems cushioning her, she was hypersensitive to her surroundings. Everything was too clear, sensations razor sharp and blindingly real. Her hands stalled, ceasing to undress, immobile thumbs tucked into the sides of her underwear. She had never engaged in a sexual act while sober, and the prospect of this being her first foray into a cyclone of mixed feelings and the promise of emotional wreckage made her nervous. No, not nervous. Angry. Sex was supposed to be an escape from reality, not an additional complication.

Taking note of her hesitation, MacCready took his hands off her, catching her eye as he asked, “Are you… doin’ okay? I mean, you’ve had one seriously heavy day.”

She had to escape the softness in his ice-blue eyes. Dropping her gaze, she tasked herself with removing his coat. She’d needed control over her life, to have the capacity to call her own shots and handle herself. The chems had threatened to steal that ability away from her. She had expected her rage to diminish following her procedure, to be replaced with confidence. It hadn’t, and now she felt as irritated as before with the added element of clarity raking at her nerves. “I’m right fine,” she answered, tugging his scarf away from him. “Clear skies and kittens, Mac. Don’t worry yourself.”

She tilted her head, mouth opening to silence his words with a kiss. His rolled his head out of reach. Stripped down to a holey white undershirt, he captured her hands in his, stilling them, and attempted eye contact again. “I told you – call me RJ.”

“Sure. Yeah,” she said, eyes darting from his. She twisted her wrists just enough to make him release her. “RJ.”

He sighed and let go of her. An uncomfortable silence gnawed at the space between them. Pulling his cap off, MacCready cocked his head to look her over. He raked both hands through his hair, which sprang back into place almost immediately. “Cait…” Her name was a whispered plea.

“Fuck all. I toldja, I’m fine.” Her hands landed on her hips. Why did he have to make things difficult? Nearly naked, her indignation compiled. “Are we doin’ this or not?”

“ _Not_ , if you’re gonna be all weird about it.”

“I ain’t the one-” She cut herself off. Fighting with a guy who was trying to respect her… how low of her. She beat her shame back. “Hell. You’re right,” she conceded, saucy hands falling. “Long day.” She battled to pin a smile on her face. “And you and me – we’re the only ones with a lick o’ sense in this place.”

He gathered her in his arms, and, shite, that felt nice. “What can I say?” he told her. “I call things like they are. I like beer and caps and making heads pop like dropped melons. I’m not into wasting time or worrying about hurt feelings.” He held her slightly away from him, frowning. “But I’m just kinda… waiting for it to all fall apart, you know? Things have been quiet for too long. Before coming here, I’d been under Hancock’s umbrella for months, handling his dirty business, making sure troublemakers disappeared. Before that, my life was kinda… unfocused. Keeping my head down in Goodneighbor was probably one of the best calls I’ve ever made.” He gave her a fetching smile despite grimy teeth. “Well, I mean, that and throwing in with you. Vickie to my Vance.”

“Bloody hell, RJ,” she chuckled, lessening her tension a fraction. “Didn’t they get shot up?” she vaguely recalled.

His face slacked, and he blinked in confusion. “Did they? Well, crap.” The grip on her shoulders tightened before releasing. Face screwed up in thought, MacCready declared, “Cait… I think you’re swell. I mean, it’s pretty great to not have to watch what I say around you – you say way worse – but I’m trying something out; being honest instead of hiding like a coward.” He took a sharp inhalation through his nose, mouth pressed into a tight line. “Look, I’m not trying to dump a load of crap on you, but I’ve left some details out of my story.” Taking something small and wooden from his pants pocket, he turned it a few times in his hand, running fingers through his sandy blonde hair before putting it back. “I was married,” he confided, voice low, keeping a hand in the pocket with the item.

“Yeah, well, we all make mistakes, don’t we?” she said, making a move to grab the buttons on his pants. If she could make him stop talking, maybe there was still hope that nagging thought could be pushed from her mind. She pressed her naked chest against him, reaching up to wrap arms around his neck and take his ear between her teeth.

“I’ve got a kid,” he blurted out, standing stone still with her draped over him.

Cait jerked her head back and slammed her mouth shut, feeling as if he’d jabbed her sharply with information. She withdrew her arms and pushed him away. If he thought that her getting clean was some sort of precursor to a picket-fence-family-life, he was about to get an earful.

She was gathering air in her lungs to let loose on him when a deep bang rattled the water tower. Both she and MacCready looked down the yawning shaft of the tower when a second crash sounded. “Robert Joseph!” the grating voice of a ghoul called up at the sphere. “Get down here before I climb up there and put you over my knee!” It was John, it had to be.

“Crap,” MacCready grumbled, slamming the cap on and scrambling to get back into his clothes. He gave Cait a brief, apologetic glance before swinging himself over the edge of the walkway and clambering down the rope ladder. MacCready was a Goodneighbor boy through and through, rushing to his master’s call. In that instant, she pitied him, having to answer to the whims and rules of someone else. Nate was already dragging her across the Commonwealth, cherry-picking what she was allowed to pummel. If she followed MacCready each time he was beckoned, she would be giving her life away entirely, becoming little more than his pet, his bird, his plaything.

Cait crossed her arms over her bare chest and leaned against the curving tiles of the sphere, looking down through a missing panel to the ground below. The metal was cool against her skin. She could see John pacing, looking like a nervous wolf as his coat swung to and fro. Sexy ghouls she could appreciate, but combined with the creepiness of synths – no thank you. She wouldn’t have asked John to go with her if she’d known he’d been putting it to one of those murder machines.

She heard the door to the water tower slide open with a rusty grind. “Is this that part where you take a swing at me?” MacCready’s voice carried. She couldn’t see him. He must be lingering in the doorway. Her breathing went shallow and quiet as she listened. The two of them were loud men in general, and eavesdropping was easy.

“What in high hell was that about?” John snapped. “Dan’s done nothing to you. And you ain’t that big of an asshole to call him out for no reason.”

“Look I… I’m sorry I was an ass – a jerk – about Danse being… _made_ instead of born,” was MacCready’s weak excuse. His voice had dropped, and Cait had to strain to hear him. “My mouth tends to get me in trouble.”

“Yeah, I’ve met you. Kinda what I expect.” John responded, his voice losing none of its harshness.

“It’s just….” MacCready gave an aggravated sigh. “Man, when did you start leaving me out of things? Did I screw up? Is that why you don’t trust me?”

John was quiet for a moment before saying, “So, all that shit about you and him… that was about _you and me_?”

“C’mon. We were close. In Goodneighbor, you even counted on me. Then we end up here, you got sucked into being his only friend, and I got…”

“…replaced?” John proffered.

Oversized insects buzzed and chirped during a stretch of silence. Cait shifted in the pause.

“…yeah,” MacCready answered at last. “You brought me on board to help with your mayoral crap and I hardly saw you. Felt like I ended up as a spare tire while you slacked off with your boyfriend.”

“Jeez, Mac. Things with him… it’s bigger than me. It takes a lotta damn effort.” He was quiet for a time. “Sorry to set you up with a position in Goodneighbor and then ignore you. Sometimes, I’m still a dick.”

Cait leaned back from the opening, hiking her pants up. As she pawed about, searching for her clothes, the thought of putting actual effort into a relationship dawned on her. The idea that anyone would actively welcome the mental exertion it took to fully unravel another person seemed laughably sappy. Hooking her bra in the back, she stretched her neck back out through the exposed panel.

“Man, I gotta ask…” MacCready said, wandering out to where Cait could see him. “ _Danse_? He’s not like he’s affectionate or even, well, _nice_. He’s got the emotional range of a bag of hammers.”

Cait stifled a snort.

“It ain’t easy to explain,” John said. “We ain’t lewd about it. We’re just people, you know? It ain’t for show like, ‘ _C’mere and look at how easy my life is now that I’ve got this guy and all his problems to lug around’_. I can just… be still with him. When we’re together, I don’t feel like my life is falling apart.”

With what felt like a blow to the gut, Cait slid down the side of the dome, realizing that she and MacCready didn’t come close to what John was describing. She hadn’t misled him; they hadn’t discussed it at all. A future, titles, what the other wanted, none of this had come up during the few months that they had been sneaking around, banging one out when no one was watching. She felt more uncertainty now than before she’d left for Vault 95. She cursed to herself, feeling like an awful person to get clean and then consider ending things with him. But the idea of being a parent, a mother figure to his rugrat… that terrified her right down to her soul. She wanted to _want_ to care about his situation and found that she couldn’t manage it, pieces of her still shattered and too hard to reassemble.

“Hey,” John was saying down below. “If I ever ask to hold chems for you, don’t indulge me. Don’t take ‘em from me, but don’t hand ‘em over either.”

“You’re the boss, Boss.” MacCready added, “You doin’ this for you, or for him?”

“Both. But me, mostly. It’s gotta be me or it won’t stick.”

“I get that. Sorta. But I’ll look out for you.”

Cait would never have had the gall to enlist actual help with lessening chem-use. Sure, she’d tried to kick her Psycho habit a few times, if you could call being too broke to buy any _trying_. Her plea to Nate had been easier, to rip her addictions free like a bandage in one go. She pondered on MacCready, if she used him as another substance, treating sex an additional numbing tool. The likely answer was a distressing _yes_. She hastily got dressed, hooking her corset by feel as she glanced out of the tower.

“Good to hear. Thanks, _Bob_.” John slapped MacCready on the back, hard. The shorter man nearly fell.

MacCready huffed a sigh and righted the brim of his cap. “I hate you.”

“Aw, that’s nice,” John cooed. “I hate you, too. Although Cait might fight me over you. Pretty sure I’d lose that battle.” MacCready moved out of sight. The door to the water tower creaked and slammed, and the rope ladder wobbled as someone climbed it.

 _Oh, hell._ She and MacCready hadn’t been careful enough and had been discovered. People would surely mock her, calling her _soft_ and _weak,_ branding her with feminine terms she hated. Why couldn’t a girl be allowed to keep a decent fuck around without it being a big deal? No, this had to end. Extraditing herself from this relationship wasn’t going to be fair to MacCready. He seemed to genuinely like her, which made her feel even worse.

Hauling himself up the last rung, MacCready smoothly crooned, “Now, where were we?” His smirking expression shifted to surprise when he saw her dressed.

Cait’s mouth felt dry as she grasped for words. “We were… gettin’ set for me to head out.” Cowardice had taken root. She had always preferred escape to reality.

He blinked round eyes. “Wait… what?”

She sidled past him, barely brushing his body as she slipped by, taking either side of the open railing in her hands. “Been a long day, RJ. A girl needs some space… I mean, _sleep_. I… goodnight.”

As she climbed down the ladder, she heard him mutter, “Everyone’s lost their darn minds…”

Once outside, she made her way back down into Sanctuary. Her chem stash might be gone, and MacCready’s touch no longer an option, but there were still other vices to satisfy her needs. “Hell,” she muttered, skating through the remnants of the night’s earlier festivities. She plucked a bottle of whiskey from the workshop table. “Might as well start drinkin’.”


	7. Watchman

PRESTON

Sanctuary Hills, MA

April 14th, 2288

The heavy bowl of night refused to lift that morning. The sky lightened, turning the dawn from indigo to a hazy gray, but sunlight refused to puncture a potent cloud cover that clung to Sanctuary like a cloak. Streetside, along the broken ruins of sidewalk, the tall oil lamps still burned bright, warm balls of light staving off the gloom. Such mornings were normal this time of year, the mist likely to burn off by midday and be trailed by balmy afternoons.

Preston Garvey wandered the vacant streets, laser musket in his hands, keeping watch while the rest of Sanctuary Hills began to rise. The chirring of inactive turrets and somber moos coming from the brahmin pen were the only sounds that filled his ears. He pondered on what mornings might have been like before the war. Birds were more plentiful then, filling the air with song instead of mournful caws. He imagined the stagnant frames of automobiles coming to life, zooming around as people left the safety of their homes to take them into the city. No worries of being shot or eaten would trouble those happy pre-war people. Were their lives exciting in a world where anything seemed possible? Or were individuals bored by the monotony of their daily lives, trying to find faults in their stable environment?

As Preston made another loop through the development, skating by the garden and around the main congregation area, he heard noises coming from the workshop. Voices clashed, rising in a quarrel. One of the combatants had Sturges’ familiar drawl. Peculiar. The man was the voice of reason within the Minutemen and almost never shouted. Preston’s gait picked up in worry, pushing him into a jog, coming to a startled halt as he rounded the workshop corner.

Nate was strapping himself into his Brotherhood combat armor, scowling at Sturges as he secured the fastenings. Their resident repairman had his shoulders bowed in a sullen pout, brawny arms crossed defensively as he leaned against the weapon workstation. Nate’s paladin armor sat within the repair bay, looking depressed in its sedentary slump, adding to the dolefulness of the scene.

“Aw, hell, old timer,” Sturges barked at Nate, a sneer curling one side of his lip. “You think you’ve got all the answers!” 

“My knowledge is a bit more extensive than yours,” Nate spat, jerking a buckle tight across one thigh.

Preston stepped up onto the concrete slab of the workshop, his musket angled at the ground. “Hold up, you two. What’s going on here?” he asked in a calm yet interrogative tone.

Nate’s head snapped in Preston’s direction and pointed in a frenzy at Sturges. “Tell him,” he ordered, hard, fervent eyes falling back onto Sturges. “Tell him what you said to me!”

“What now?” Preston was thoroughly confused. His back straightened, preparing for news of imminent danger.

“All right, all right,” Sturges said, unfolding his arms and holding his palms up for serenity. “We’re gonna settle this now!” He turned to Preston, face stern with deliberation. “What’s worse, Colonel – being a vampire or being a werewolf?”

Speechless, Preston could only stare at them, aghast. It was too early for nonsense. He squeezed his eyes closed and took a moment for himself, scrunching his face up and shaking his head. Tension became annoyance. “Guys,” he addressed Nate and Sturges with weary exasperation. “Can you not?”

“Not, what?” asked Sturges.

“Talk. Or, much less, include me?” He frowned at Nate, who was cinching the last clasp on his chestpiece. “General, why are you still here? Thought you were headed out at daybreak.”

Nate gestured to Sturges with his chin. “We got caught up and needed a swing vote. Danse refused to participate.”

Swinging his head, Preston spotted Danse for the first time, his expression dour, seated on a bench in the corner, stuffing fusion cores and ammo boxes into a rucksack. He wondered how many times Danse had been asked that question before it had been passed to him. Obviously, a few too many.

Getting Nate started on a chat regarding movie monsters and days gone by would only result in further delay. Preston couldn’t blame him; the man from the vault had few topics that still brought him enjoyment, regardless that most didn’t understand his references. Granting his friends an acquiescent smile, Preston compelled, “On your way, sir.”

“Hmph. Fine.” Nate plucked his helmet up from the workshop table and dropped it over his head. He strode forward and slapped Danse on the shoulder. “I’m tagging you back into the game. Suit up.” Danse’s gaze dropped and suddenly seemed to find the concrete floor fascinating. The muscles in Nate’s face smoothed as he blanched. “Well, I mean, best as you can,” Nate blathered, trying to recover. He tossed Danse a combat armor chestpeice, one without insignia. Nate cleared his throat in embarrassment and slapped a fusion core into his armor, Danse donning the apparel given to him. Once Nate was secured in his suit, he and Danse exited the workshop, heading out to the coast. 

Preston paused before shouting down the road to him. “Oh, and vampire! Werewolves get the majority of their time to use at their discretion!”

The General put his hand over his heart, wounded by Preston’s words, before turning to continue with Danse. Sturges slapped his knee and whooped. “See? I knew it!”

Preston gave him a small smile. Although the old Atom Cat might never realize it, Sturges was the one who kept them all going on the road from Quincy to Sanctuary Hills. Throughout all the losses and dreadful turn of events, Sturges’ ironic anecdotes and upbeat attitude had been infectious to their small band of survivors. When moments came that made Preston want to hang up his hat and walk unarmed into a mass of ferals, it was Sturges’ consistent faith and his here-and-now outlook that kept Preston’s perspective in check. He not only owed Sturges his life, he also owed him his sanity.

As Preston resumed his patrol of the perimeter, the sky steered away from leaden hues, turning a faint shade of pale blue. Sanctuary was calm, with many of the regular inhabitants heading off to handle independent issues. Nate and Danse were disappearing over the bridge, on their way to deal with Brotherhood concerns. Piper and John had headed back to the city last night, off to their respective hometowns. Deacon could be anywhere, likely having slipped away in the night, as was common for him. Preston spotted Curie absorbedly working at her chemistry station, a pair of oversized plastic safety goggles wide across her face, the strap making her short hair stand up in the back. The effect made her look not unlike a mad scientist from the cover of a _Tesla Science_ magazine. The settlers tending to the crops were neither skilled fighters or intelligence operatives. 

He paused in his circuit to shake his sleeve from his wrist. A sundial watch was strapped to his wrist, and he turned until it was properly aligned. _Almost time,_ he noted. He searched for a decent place to prop his musket, settling for the flat surface of a patio table. Several nuclear fusion batteries charged the receiver in a pouch that hung from his belt, the wireless radio adhered to his overcoat sending a constant stream of updates through the Radio Freedom channel and allowing Preston to check in with each location remotely. Each day, at zero eight hundred, he rolled through the list of settlement sites in alphabetical order. It was a constant endeavor to track dozens of settlements all with different requirements and populations, but it gave him pride to see the Commonwealth getting back on its feet, and he felt honored to be a part of it. But with too many failures under his belt, he wasn’t comfortable with any more responsibility than he already dealt with. As a colonel, micromanaging Minutemen needs, provisions and security was a full-time position that suited him, and as far up the ranks as he was comfortable with.

Leaning against the concrete slabs that separated Sanctuary from the river embankment, he set his rifle down. He pulled a notepad and pencil from an inside pocket of his waistcoat and flipped to a fresh page. Watching the water shimmer in the sunlight, he gripped the radio on his lapel, pressed the talk button and said, “Abernathy Farm, report.”

_“All clear. Could use some more beds, though. Over.”_

“Copy that. I’ll make a note of it. Over.” He scratched a notation and moved onto the next settlement. “Boston Airport, report.”

 _“We’ve got it handled. Over,”_ an irritable Brotherhood agent barked.

Preston rolled his eyes. What a waste of a settlement. All that location did was drain supplies. Still, Preston didn’t argue with the General’s wishes to include it. “Copy that. Bunker Hill, report?”

Bunker Hill buzzed through with Kessler’s voice. “ _Colonel_ ,” she addressed. “ _We’ve had a caravan go missing. The daughter of one of our shopkeepers was with them. They were headed your way. Over.”_

Frowning, Preston responded, “Copy that, Bunker Hill. Kidnapping? Over.”

_“No ransom, Sir. Last sighting was near Lexington. Over.”_

A missing person and a supply line down. Preston heaved a sigh. “On it, Bunker Hill. We’ll send out a team. Garvey, out.”

_“Copy.”_

He rushed through the rest of the locations, taking down resource complaints and petitions for defense, before turning his full attention to the issue from Bunker Hill. He was down his standard response team. Normally, he would forward this information to Nate and allow him to resolve it. However, with the General on a specific mission for another faction, Preston didn’t dare disturb him. He could call for reserves at the Castle to intercede but trekking in from the coastline could cost valuable time and, possibly, lives.

As he struggled to manufacture an investigation, MacCready wandered up the road, yawning and stretching, back from another night spent in his tower. For an instant, their eyes locked. MacCready stiffened visibly before turning on his heel and starting back the way he came.

“MacCready, come back,” Preston called. “I’ve got something I need you to look in on.”

 MacCready stopped, his back to Preston, shoulders rising and falling in what had to a hefty sigh. “What do you need Preston?” he asked, turning. “I’ve got a full day planned.”

 _A full day of gambling at Starlight, no doubt,_ Preston predicted, dryly. Though the merc’s activities seemed sketchy at times, he stuck to his word like glue. The General trusted him, and that had to be good enough for Preston. He picked his musket up and steadied it, the weight of it feeling familiar and comforting. “Same old story,” he answered. “More bad news with no end in sight.”

Readjusting the brim of his cap as he tentatively approached, MacCready sarcastically divulged, “I love talking with you, Preston. You never fail to lighten my mood.”

Preston let the comment slide. “Bunker Hill needs our help. Minuteman caravan went missing nearby.”

“Of course,” MacCready smirked. “You’re always with the business, aren’t you? Any thoughts on where you’re sending me?”

That went smoother than expected. Preston had anticipated some level of bickering before gaining a commitment from MacCready. The boy must be sidetracked. Preston charted the supply lines in his mind, flipped through one probable route to the next. There was a dark spot on his mental map, a place where they hadn’t been able to establish a connection yet. “There’s a community partway between us and Cambridge. I’ve passed by it before. High walls, secure, only one way in. Looks suspicious, if you ask me. I want you to check it out.”

Nodding, MacCready said, “Got it. Not that I’m down with walking into surprise places. I normally like to know what’s going to try and kill me in advance.”

“Then bring some muscle,” Preston replied. “And be diligent.”

“Ya mentioned muscle, right?” came Cait’s voice. “Well, that sure as rain sounds like me.” Emerging from the doorway of a nearby house, she settled her bat, a wicked looking thing with nails sticking out of the barrel, over a shoulder. Her undereyes were swollen, evidence of a rough night, but an impious smile stretched her lips. “I could use me a good head bashin’. Been far too long.”

“Only if necessary, Cait,” Preston humored, a tight smile crossing his face. “You’ll be looking for answers, not trouble.”

“Tato, pato, trouble, schmouble,” MacCready quipped, throwing a conspiring smirk at Cait. “We’ll give what we get. I’ll grab some rations and pack up.”

 _Hmm_ , Preston pondered darkly. Maybe sending the two of them alone wasn’t the best idea. Both had a penchant for swift violence that could easily get out of hand. As MacCready and Cait headed towards the supply depot, Preston called after them. “And take Curie with you,” he called. “She could use some, uh, practice with the outside world.” And her intrinsic goodness might balance any short fuses burning within MacCready and Cait.

They halted and craned their heads, first at Preston, then towards the little synth. Curie, who clearly must have heard the exchange, removed her goggles and gave them a meek wave, obviously hesitant following MacCready’s outburst the night before. Preston could only hope that the pursuit of a common goal would keep both Cait and MacCready’s opinions in check. The two of them shrugged at each other and ducked into the depot. Curie ran to join them on short legs.

Preston leaned into his radio once more, his musket dangling from one hand. “Bunker Hill, come in.”

_“This is Bunker Hill. Over.”_

“Investigatory team is on the way. We’ll find your people.” As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t. Making promises was a dangerous way to handle relations in an unstable environment. No taking it back now. He’d just have to hope for a solution in which everyone would go home safe. “Over,” he closed.

“ _Thank you, Colonel. God bless. Over_.”

With little else to do but pray, he recommenced his patrol, resolved to never let Sanctuary fall on his watch. Never again, would he lose another refuge. He owed as much to the Commonwealth.


	8. Outbreak

JOHN

Beacon Hill, MA

April 14th, 2288

Night travel didn’t bother John. His newly-gilded eyes had granted him with superior night-vision, and he knew the routes to Goodneighbor like the back of his own rad-twisted hand. Sometime before dawn, he’d stolen onto the third floor of a gutted townhouse, grabbing a few hours of sleep, plasma pistol in his hand, snuggled into a discarded sleeping bag. Its owner had either left it behind in a rush or been unable to return and claim it.

Having opted to take the safe route to Goodneighbor, one preferable when traveling alone, it had taken him in a wide arc, leading him through sparsely populated areas and avoiding the tightly packed streets of the Fens and Back Bay. He passed over a few potholed and fractured bridges, skirting around the riverfront. The raiders at Camp Kendall and those on the other side of the safeguarded bridge to Beacon Hill gave him little trouble. Their guns had lowered at the sight of his costume, a vivacious red against the cool concrete backdrop of the riverfront, and they allowed him to pass freely. Plenty of raiders swung through Goodneighbor – a fact which Danse had adamantly opposed… Finn, too, come to think of it – using their spoils to purchase rarer varieties of ammunition, chems, or alcohol. Several even had Memory Den accounts. More caps passing through the merchants was never a detriment, so John had allowed their presence, one of the few leniencies still in effect from Vic’s term as mayor.

It was a tedious and dull walk. Although two canisters of Jet clacked together in his pocket with each step, he refrained from using them. Getting high on the streets of Boston and being killed would be a terrible way to repay Danse for his affections. In a self-imposed compromise, he slid a tin of Mentats from a different pocket and popped a single tablet, grinding it with his teeth before swallowing.

Spurred by the Mentat, thoughts congested John’s mind. It seemed like plenty of people, folks he respected, were swift to oppose the way he ran his town. Piper, Nate, Mac, Danse... Nick. What would they have him do – make it another Diamond City with tiered classes? Like Vault 81 with their health regs and strict schedule? A Minutemen port, chock full of kids, with Brahmin shitting in the streets? What about the unfiltered folks, the beatniks and drifters, the square pegs that didn’t fit in? Was he meant to toss them out to become meat for the mutants and playthings for raiders? Silly, stupid ideas with little more substance than vapor.

Detritus clogged the streets of Beacon Hill, turning multilane boulevards into narrow pathways through the rubble. There were often miniscule changes in the route. Intermittent chunks of buildings would crash to the street, sometimes a few shards of glass, sometimes half a story would come crumbling down, blocking an intersection, and new paths would have to be made. When that would occur, John would send out work teams, clearing a path though or putting up new signage around the obstruction, both leading to Goodneighbor.

As he wove his way through alleys and narrow corridors that used to be wide thoroughfares, a mark on a propped-up piece of cardboard caught his eye. Two swipes of blue paint intersected to form an X. His stomach knotted at the sight of it, panic charging his body with white-hot energy and making his pace quicken. The sides of buildings and hastily erected signs became visible, baring either those same marks or phrases such as _Turn Back_ or _No Ghouls!_ all written in identical shade of blue. He broke into a run, plasma pistol bouncing on his hip, leaving rousing ferals and barking mongrels in his wake as he charged towards home. _Fuck. Fuck, no. Fuck_ , ran through his mind as he sprinted. Courtesy of the Mentat he had taken, the marks stood out like vibrant, sinister slashes on the white exterior of Mass Fusion.

The familiar glow of Goodneighbor’s neon sign came into view, along with more alarming warnings. The overhanging overpass creaked and groaned ominously above as he flew to his town. Rounding a corner brought the entrance into perspective, a large X painted on the entry door, the blue paint still wet and shining. _Fuck. Fuck!_ With the cold sensation of fear spiraling within him, he banged the door open and flung himself through the doorway.

The streets were empty. He spun in a hapless circle, searching for anyone who might be lurking just out of view. A hulking metal figure still stood in her shop. John raced towards KLEO as he shouted, gasping, “Is it here? Is it back?”

“As I’ve said before – the probability of an additional outbreak was always likely, Sir,” the assaultron stated. “You knew that.”

The Blue Pox had returned to Goodneighbor.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he finally screamed out loud. Rage and horror caused his limbs to tremble as he raced to find Fahrenheit. 

This was any leader’s worst fear come to pass – an illness running rampant in their community, with little opportunity to stop it. If John had a deity that he believed in, he would have prayed nightly to it to never witness that epidemic again. Twenty-three ghouls had been infected the last time the plague cut through Goodneighbor. Nine had gone feral and were put down. Only four, including John, had lived.

Many things had changed since the bombs dropped, including viruses. New strains of old diseases mutated the same as everything organic had, finding new hosts and new methods of survival. Freshly evolving species and human variants provided additional hosts for innovative strains to transform into deadly deviations of the same malady. Some strains only attacked the lax immunity of vault dwellers. Some only provoked mutants and wildlife. And some, only affected ghouls.

The Pox had been crawling through the Wasteland for at least a century, occasionally disappearing for years before resurfacing with deadly vengeance. Doctors that focused their studies on ghoul ailments were rare and immensely valued. Some believed that the Blue Pox had evolved from aggressive strains of the New Plague, mutating to only contaminate ghoul hosts. It was common knowledge that the Pox was only transmissible to irradiated humans and that the vast majority of Wastelanders had nothing to fear. Being an illness that only targeted an already dismissible race, the Blue Pox received little attention from the medical community and few cures or treatments had been developed. The mortality rate was high, and most outbreaks only ended once the virus had wiped out the entire populace. The last time the Blue Pox had swept through Goodneighbor, there had been little to do other than make the condemned as comfortable as possible. The truly human townspeople had been tasked with dragging those in the throes of feraldom out into the streets and shooting them with silencers on, keeping town panic at bay for as long as they could.

John made for the State House. Shoving the front door open, John bellowed, “Fahr?” into the building. “You here?”

“She’s in the rear warehouse with the rest of them, boss,” a lone watchman answered, emerging from one of the lower offices. He was a human, John noted, and the sole person in the structure. Daytime typically saw a flow of drifters requesting asylum, and suppliers peddling sales.

Tearing through the State House, John flung himself out the opposite door and found himself in another vacant street. _Humans only_ , read a banner draped over the Rexford’s front door. Jerking his head in the opposite direction, John’s gaze landed on the rear warehouse. An abundance of blue Xs adorned the building, both on cardboard posters and upon the brick façade. He hurried towards it, coat sailing behind him. Barging through the door, he almost collided with Daisy, cartons of dirty water mounted in her arms. She looked both exhausted and relieved when she said, “Oh, Hancock. Thank god. You’re back!”

Someone grabbed him roughly back the back of his coat and whirled him around. He found Fahrenheit glaring at him, her hand still twisted in his apparel. Her tired eyes were red-rimmed, and she stank of sweat, stress, and sickness. She hissed, “Respectfully – fuck you, John. Goodneighbor’s coming apart at the seams.”

He felt blindsided and took a moment to force a deep breath before asking, “When did it start?”

“For certain?” she asked. “The marks showed up the day you left, although, it seems that symptoms had been surfacing for a while. Fatigue, followed by cough, followed by boils.”

“Christ, Fahr. You know I would’ve come straight back. Why didn’t Kent radio Sanctuary?”

She leveled a disgusted look at him. Dragging him, she led him up a level and into a side room. Several lanterns littered the floor, leaving the room dim, dismal, and draped in shadow. On a mattress in a corner, wrapped up in blankets and seeming like he was asleep, lay Kent. In the weak lamplight, the rounded blotches on his face looked purple, although, in any other light, it would be clear that the blemishes were blue in color.

Fahrenheit let go of him, and John sank to the floor by Kent’s side. “Goddamn,” he breathed, guilt churning in his stomach. Only now did John remember how feeble Kent had looked when they last saw each other. “Hey, bud. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. But I’m back. I’m gonna fix this.”

Kent stirred, mumbling, “Oh… Mr. Mayor… it’s you.” He gave a frail, heartbreakingly warm smile. “I believe in you. You’d never let us down.” He opened his eyes. His sclera was pitch black.

John rocked backwards in shock. His composure was only lost for a moment. Quickly, he slid his features into a self-assured smirk. There was a time and a place for lies, and this instance was not only perfect, but necessary. “Hang in there, pal. The worst is over,” he said, leaning to pat Kent’s shoulder. The heat of Kent’s fever rose up through the blanket to warm John’s palm.

When John glanced up, Fahrenheit’s mouth was drawn in a tight line. He stood, bringing his head close to hers, and whispered, “Grab all the ice you can from the bar. Get Rufus’ crazy beer-toting robot in here, too. Anything cryo, bring it in. Use ‘em to make compresses and cold water. Gotta keep the fevers down. And put someone on the gate – keep all ghouls out.”

She nodded and left to fulfill his orders.

Ghouls were at a severe disadvantage when it came to illness. While fevers existed to kill viruses and send the host body back on the road to good health, they could mean swift death for a ghoul. Lingering radiation kept their bodies burning hot, several degrees above than the average human. While regular humans would sweat, ghouls lacked those first few crucial layers of epidermis that allowed for the regulation of body heat. Too high a fever could quite literally cook a ghoul’s brain, sending them into a premature feral state, from which there would be no return. 

John glanced around the room. Kent’s was one of four mattresses inhabiting this area, each occupied, the entire building a makeshift infirmary. He kicked himself for not having a proper doctor employed – it’d been impossible to convince one to watch over an entire town of addicts, see what folks did to themselves and not intercede. Too heartbreaking maybe. And most Goodneighbor types couldn’t pay for services. Doc Amari down at the Memory Den was a Railroad plant, not a medical physician, and had no training regarding ghoul health.  

He patrolled the warehouse, finding each room on every level filled with affected ghouls, Ham, Daisy and a few others running back and forth, trying to make the ill comfortable. He grabbed Daisy’s attention. “Dais,” he said to her. “What happened? Where’d it come from?”

“You missed the meeting, John.” He must have looked confused, because she continued. “About all the new Minutemen caravans put into rotation by your vault buddy?” John nodded. He had been preoccupied with Cait and flighty thoughts of sobriety. It certainly hadn’t been the first meeting that he had missed since Nate had first darkened his doorway. 

“More caravans mean more inventory,” Daisy explained, pausing briefly to hand a satchel of Med-X off to a passing volunteer. “More inventory means a higher chance of trading contaminated goods. We got some drifters talking about how they’ve been on the run from this for a few months. Danse’s thoroughness at the gate was probably the only thing that staved off an outbreak for this long. Your boy probably saved a lot of ghouls’ lives without even knowing it.”

“Yeah,” John muttered. “Wouldn’t he like to know _that_.” He had been so angry at Danse for turning away unscheduled caravans, and for pulling unlisted merchandise from sales. He’d never felt happier to have been wrong. A fleeting sense of gratitude towards Danse was overshadowed by the weight of what needed to happen now. Leaving the warehouse, he traveled up Goodneighbor’s main drag to snake in between the slots of the barricade at the end of the street. Reaching a slim arm though the wooden panel, he found the collection of wires that ran power to the neon sign on the opposite side of the wall. For the second time in his career, he unplugged the marquee with a swift tug. The hum of the sign died, along with any optimism that might have been lingering in him.

The rest of the day was spent taking names of the infected and charting the rate of their decline. Depressing work, all told, survivors of the first flux watching it happen once again, and the smoothskins – ones that hadn’t fled when all this had started – were getting a fast history lesson. Despite all the chem stations in town, they were down the one ingredient needed to reduce fevers in ghouls – rare-as-fuck ash blossoms that only grew in the Glowing Sea and were basically irradiated medicine. They’d blown though a small stockpile years ago and hadn’t replenished. For a small moment, John hated himself for what he’d done to his town, letting such a simple gaff happen under his watch.

Retreating to the Memory Den, John took up residency at Kent’s radio. He slipped a holotape into the recorder and prepared to loop a message. Fighting a numbness that threatened to consume him, John prepped his best authoritative voice. Ready, he began recording. “Message repeating,” he said. “This is the mayor of Goodneighbor. The date is April 14th, 2288. We’ve got an outbreak of the Blue Pox going down. Until further notice, the town’s on quarantine for all ghouls traveling in area. Repeat, we got a quarantine in effect.” His mouth twisted down, desperation fluttering in his chest. He added, “Hey… for fuck’s sake… if you’ve got ash blossoms, send ‘em our way. Goodneighbor, out.”

John manned the radio all night with nerves on fire, sucking down one canister of Jet after another, his own voice playing over and over on the recording. There were no replies.

It was Piper who woke him in the morning. As he slept propped up in Kent’s chair, she slipped into the room and touched him on a shoulder, causing him to jerk awake. His hand had gone for his knife before realizing that it was her and that his knife was long gone, lost at the bottom of some waterway in Maine.

“Christ, Piper,” he snapped, rubbing at his face. Kent’s desk was strewn with chem containers, Jet and Mentats and a hit of Med-X thrown in for good measure. He sneered up at the reporter. “Come to chronicle my downfall?”

Piper’s expression was more lenient than normal, and she shook off his attitude easily. “I go where the news takes me,” she said, shrugging. “I heard your message last night and I did a little digging. Word is, this weird ghoul Pox started near the southern border of the Commonwealth and has been traveling up. Somehow, Goodneighbor got passed over until now.”

“When did sick ghouls become news?” he snidely asked, shaking the containers on the desk. All empty. “People suddenly start caring?”

“That’s the power of the press,” she said airily, waving a hand. “We kinda dictate what people should pay attention to.”

A chem headache throbbed to life and he rubbed his temples. His body was confused. It just wanted a steady stream of chems, none of this stopping and starting nonsense. He slumped in the chair and heaved a sigh. Exhausted and stressed, he didn’t feel like putting on the lovable-leader act for her. “You shouldn’t be here,” he wearily stated.

She frowned, her brows creasing. “What am I gonna do? Take a strain back to Diamond City with me, where it affects all of no one?”

“Yeah,” he said, standing. He righted his hat and straightened his clothes. “And send it right back out again on the caravans, infecting more and more ghouls as they sit in their homes, minding their own business.”

“Shouldn’t you be, I dunno, anywhere else?” she asked, incredulous. “A ghoul-based disease and you’re standing here at ground zero?”

He moved to push past her and check on the infirmary. “I’ve had it.”

She grabbed his arm and spun him back to face her. “Wait – You’ve _had_ it?”

Irked, he pointed at his eyes with both index fingers, right up in her face, indicating the obsidian blackness that consumed his corneas. “Have you seen me? Think this is normal?” he disgruntledly asked, backing down only after she let go of him. “Had a bout come through in the winter of ’84,” he informed her. “Those of us that lived ended up looking like this.” 

She squinted at him and he could almost hear the clockwork tick of her mind, stringing facts together. “You told me you had Rad Fever when you were a kid.”

That’s right. He’d told her when he was in the cellar in Sanctuary, waiting for an unlikely rescue. “Yeah. I did.”

Her mouth hung open. “Jeez,” she finally shrieked, finding her voice. “How are you even alive? John… you’ve had two major Wasteland illnesses. The odds of getting through either one of those are close to zero.”

“Guess I’m built scrappier than I look,” he said, making a move for the door again.

Static spat from the radio. “ _Goodneighbor? Can you hear me?_ ” a voice on the other end of the line said.

Shoving past Piper again, John leapt for the receiver. “Hey, yeah. This is Goodneighbor,” he said into the microphone.

_“Hello. My name is Arlen. I’m up north in a ghoul settlement. I think we may be able to help you out. We keep a stock of ash blossoms on hand because, well, you never can be too careful, can you?”_

John stepped back and threw a series of wild celebratory punches into the air before answering, “That’d be an awesome and much obliged thing to do, friend. How you wanna arrange this?”

“ _You know where Finch Farm is? We’re up the road a ways. On the other side of Saugus_.”

Nate had dragged John to Finch Farm before and had gotten a flaming sword for his troubles. “Yeah, I know where both places are.”

“ _Wonderful. We call our home The Slog. We’ll see you soon, Goodneighbor_.”

“Got it. On the way.” He made a move to rush out of the Memory Den before whirling around and adding, “Thank you, Slog!” to his dispatch.

As he bustled out the door, Piper kept pace with him, nearly on his heels. “What’re you after, Piper?” he spat, glaring. “I’m busy.”

“I’m invested now,” she said as they stepped into the street. The early-morning sky was hazy pink. “Call it _expanding my horizons_. Ghoul interest, instead of human.” At his incredulous look, she defended, “What? Ghouls can read. And you’re hiding something. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the freaky peepers,” she added, swirling a finger at his eyes. “And I’m gonna get to the bottom of it.”

Hmm. He’d wondered when folks would start to poke through the lax story he’d given about his new golden irises. Of course Piper’d be the first the question his excuse. “Then you gotta do it with your boots on,” he told her. “I’m not leaving you here to pepper folks with questions. Ask me all you want. I’ve got a long walk and I’d appreciate a second gun and another pair of hands. Even if I gotta pay the Slog one hell of a compensation for remedies, it’ll be worth it.”

As he curved around a corner and passed by The Third Rail, a woman yelled, “What the hell? You’re leaving _again_? _Now_?”

He swung around to find Fahrenheit with her fists clenched at her sides. Two watchmen carried a body, tightly wrapped in a sheet, out of the infirmary and down an alley.

“Gotta go, Fahr,” John said, jerking a thumb North. “There’s a group of ghouls that wanna help us. They got supplies that we need. Somebody’s gotta walk the goods back here.”

Her eyes were cold and condemning as she seethed, “Explain to me why it has to be you.”

He paused for an exasperated moment, feeling almost sick with overwhelming guilt. “Because it’s got to be,” he said, meeting her hard eyes. “I gotta do right by Goodneighbor, and that’s something that I’ve been letting slide for too long. I need to make it up to the people, make things right. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Heard that before,” she groused through clenched teeth. “You’re leaving me alone with this. Where have you been? Where has _MacCready_ been? I don’t what this kind of obligation, _Mayor_.”

The pop of a silenced gunshot came from the alleyway, and John felt his blood drain. There hadn’t been a body under that sheet. It had been someone he knew becoming feral.

“Fahr, I’m going. We’re already out of time.”


	9. Welcome to Covenant

MACCREADY

Covenant, MA

April 14th, 2288

There had to be some benefit to helping the Minutemen. Some groups paid for assistance, some kept you supplied with bullets and food. But for the honor of helping people – MacCready wasn’t sure how to capitalize on that. Would Duncan even find out he’d been a hired gun and a thief? Sheesh. MacCready didn’t even want to field that idea. He clung to some old-fashioned notion that boys should look up to their dads, picture them like a hero from a comic book. But what did he know? MacCready had no memories of his own father.

Still, staring up at the towering concrete walls surrounding the town of Covenant, MacCready began to wonder if his price tag was too low and his risks too steep. Beyond the barricade, proud rooftops baring all their shingles poked at the belly of the sky. Enormous floodlights, fully powered despite the daylight, stood at every corner of the complex, causing pockets of wasted and barren undergrowth to glow at the base of the wall. Turrets and barbed wire traced the ledges, making the settlement resemble a fortress that put most Brotherhood of Steel depots to shame.

MacCready’s small team stood by the side of the roadway, swallowed up by the shade cast by that immense barrier. With his rifle strapped to his back, he shifted, whistling. “What do you think?” he asked, tilting his head back down. “Keeping something out or keeping something in?”

“Such a secure location,” Curie remarked, jotting sloppy notes onto a pad, her ever-present satchel of papers slung crosswise over one shoulder. “How has Monsieur Nate or Colonel Garvey not bartered a treaty with this site? It would seem beneficial, no?”

Cait swung her bat absently as she guessed, “Maybe the folks don’t wanna play nice with the other kiddies.”

They had come down from the north, sticking to the highway to avoid stumbling over any camped raiders lingering in the hillsides. It was early afternoon and the sky was a bright, clear blue, cloudless and inviting. A wide river reflected the sunlight, breaking the rays up to sparkle on the surface of the water. The oppressive appearance of Covenant clashed with what would have otherwise been a pleasant vista. A jarringly cheery sign stood out against the flat grey tone of the barricade, welcoming visitors, overcompensating for the dreary exterior. Adjacent to a guard shack, a silver-haired greaser sat in a chair before the gates, waving at them in a friendly manner. “Ya here visiting?” he called to them.

MacCready shared a look with Cait and tilted his head in a _here we go_ insinuation, before answering back. “On our way through from Graygarden,” shouted MacCready. It wouldn’t do to have any troubles follow them back to Sanctuary. If a bunch of robots got blown up in retaliation, who cared? “Looking to set up some trade deals, if you’re into that.”

“Well, that bein’, I gotta walk each of you through the Safe Test,” the gate guard said with a lazy smile. “We can’t just let anybody in. Gotta make sure everyone’s the way seem, ya know?”

One of MacCready’s brows lowered as he tentatively approached the shack. “…kay”

“Sounds like the same line Diamond City totes,” Cait muttered under her breath, her bat draped over her shoulder as she walked. Curie scampered behind them to keep up.

“Name’s Swanson,” the greaser said, settling down at a desk in the guard shack. “Test ain’t no big deal – just a couple’a questions. Take a seat.”

MacCready fell into a chair opposite him. “Alright. Shoot.”

Swanson cleared his throat and lifted a stack of papers, eyes scanning the first page. “You are approached by a frenzied vault scientist, who yells, _I'm going to put my quantum harmonizer in your photonic resonation chamber_! What's your response?”

Off in the distance, a dog barked in the silence that followed Swanson’s question. Dumbstruck, MacCready looked up at both of his companions in turn. Curie was scribbling frantically on her notepad. “Oh! This is a riddle!” the little synth bubbled happily. Cait looked as if she had smelled something rotten, lips curled into a wicked scowl.

“What kinda fucktardery is this?” MacCready asked, turning back to the gatekeeper. Preston was going to be doing his own recon from now on.

“Please, take these questions seriously. What would you do?”

“Your mom,” MacCready answered with reckless humor. Surprisingly, the greaser wasn’t riled and held fast to that languid smile. What were they hiding behind those thick walls? Chems? What it a chem depot? It was probably chems.

The test went on for too long and followed no logical pattern that MacCready could calculate. After him, it was Curie’s turn, chatting through her reasoning and enjoying the process too much, followed by Cait, who answered in swears. At the end of it, Swanson stood and congratulated them. “Helluva bunch of answers ya gave, but ya passed.”

“Praise be to that,” Cait groused, hoisting herself out of the chair by using her bat as she would a cane.

Swanson opened the doors that led through the concrete barrier of the settlement. “Welcome to Covenant,” he said with a prideful grin.

The three of them passed through the entry and into a small, cheery-looking community complete with gardens, power and intact housing. Radios tuned into the classical music station sent soothing notes wafting through open doorways. Townspeople is freshly laundered clothes milled about, tending to their business. Curie’s eyes went everywhere, marking notes with fervor. “What a pleasant little place!” she stated with an air of naivety that was distinctly her.

“Place is so clean, I’d imagine it squeaks,” said Cait, peering into houses. “Where you wanna start?” she asked him.

A stout older man passed by, looking like Mayor McDonough from Diamond City. Too well fed and too opulently dressed by Wasteland standards, clearly, this was the man in charge. His carriage imparted absolute ease and power, a tight-smirking king looking down on his peasants. MacCready took the opportunity to collide with him.

“Sorry, man. My fault,” MacCready said, righting the man while slipping a hand into his pocket. His fingers closed around a key, which he palmed. With their luck, that key would lead to a hidden bunker of horrors.

“No harm, son. On your way then,” the man said, tipping his hat before moving off.

“I wanna start _here_.” He surreptitiously took hold of Cait’s hand and slipped the key into her palm. “No one keeps their trash out in the open. Find out what this goes to.” He turned his attention to Curie. “Ask around and see what you dig up. People find you adorable. Use that as leverage.”

“Oui. Although I am uncertain that shovels will be required.”

They split up. While Cait slipped around the backs of the houses and Curie questioned the shopkeepers, MacCready wandered the center of town. A single tree towered over him, the focal point for the entire complex. Gnarled and long dead, the scrabbly tree was an ugly eyesore. He frowned up at it, noting that it didn’t fit in with the town’s pristine setting.

Along one of the picket fences that lined the houses, a man in battered armor stood out, both by his apparel and by his long hair. Wide in the shoulders and strapped down with guns, the man had a tough look about him. He sported a deep tan and dressed like a caravan master, a battle-scarred survivor, not some townsperson that lived inside of a walled complex. The man turned away from a disgruntled citizen with a heavy sigh. “You live here?” he asked, addressing MacCready.

MacCready shook his head as drew nearer. “Just visiting.”  

“Same,” the man said, his heavily-stubbled chin giving a nod. “Name’s Honest Dan.”

“Dan, huh,” MacCready grunted. “I have a… a friend by that name.” He wasn’t sure if it was safe to call Danse _friend,_ although it was certainly better than calling him an enemy. “Bob,” was the name MacCready gave. Common and untraceable, that was the name he used when undercover, despite hating it.

“You didn’t happen upon a caravan on the way here, did you?” Dan asked.

MacCready frowned. “As it happens, we’re looking for one, too. Was coming up from Bunker Hill.”

Dan’s eyes darted to a few wandering settlers before landing back on MacCready. “We’re in a similar business, Bob. I just came from there. I think we’re looking for the same people.”

“Any leads?” MacCready was happy to utilize another set of eyes and ears.

Puffing a snide laugh, Dan commented, “These people wouldn’t cop to noticing an atom bomb. Been giving me the run around since I got here.” Dan moved closer, his voice dropped to a whisper. “You might wanna keep moving,” he said, warningly. “Folks here ain’t what they seem.”

Running a hand over his rifle strap, MacCready’s brows furrowed. “Is this so?”

Dan gave another tired sigh. “Look, I’m just trying to do a job but something ain’t right here. They’re hiding something. Dunno if it’s chems, caps, or synths, but they’re sittin’ on something.”

Before he could stop it, MacCready slid an automatic glance in Curie’s direction. She was happily chatting with a woman in a lab coat, grinning while the doctor scowled. “What made you jump to synths?” he asked, bringing his eyes back to Dan.

“If one thing has the Commonwealth up in arms, it’s that anybody can be a synth. You might have caught that entry test. Supposed to weed out the real people from the fake ones, but who’s to say how well it works?”

Distress swelled, making MacCready fidget. Taking notice, Dan said, “Shit. You’re one of them aren’t you? Or you brought one in with you?” This caravanner was brighter than he looked.

MacCready kept his mouth shut, knowing that giving no answer was just an incriminating as saying, _sure, yeah, I bought in that one over there_. “I gotta… go.” Unnerved, MacCready bid a hasty farewell to the caravanner and continued combing through the community.

He knew that it made him a hypocrite, but MacCready’s stance on synths tended to waver depending on the situation. Danse was a dangerous element, packaged directly from the Institute, just like that courser, X6-88, – who had been briefly employed in Nate’s entourage before disappearing. Both Danse and X6 had been made to deliver death, built to destroy anyone who they perceived as enemies. Curie was different, though. She operated under whatever pre-approved programming Nate had seen fit to allow. She was still a meek scientist, almost a child, a newcomer to the Wasteland who abhorred violence, partaking in it only when absolutely necessary. Sweet, shy, and unassuming, she lacked the bloodthirsty nature that both Danse and X6-88 had shared. Curie posed no threat to anyone.

Although no one had any answers for him about a missing caravan, they shared plenty of smiles and well wishes. Cait resurfaced, steering him into a tight wedge between two houses. The sun was setting, and dark shadows were easy to find. “Something’s weird,” she revealed as they huddled, her bat swinging lightly against one leg. “Ain’t nobody as happy as the folks here are.”

“Coverin’ something?” he asked, keeping an eye out for Curie. He spotted her and waved her in. She jogged towards them, satchel bouncing, nice and subtle. Not.

“Definitely,” Cait answered. “Check what I lifted.” When Curie had joined them, they formed a close circle as Cait flashed a piece of paper. A few rules were listed on the note, including a warning about discussing synths or the Institute. “What’cha think? Safehouse?”

MacCready shook his head. “Not really the Railroad’s style.”

Snorting, Cait declared, “I don’t like this. We should book outta here and come back when we know what we’re dealin’ with.”

Curie slid her notes back into her bag. “I must agree. We are simply not prepared to combat an unknown variable.”

Shivers of unease ran through MacCready and he had to agree with them. “Then let’s beat.”

As they left the nook between houses, they found a sunset painted in pinks and corals waiting for them. With the girls flanking him, MacCready led them back out into the main arena of Covenant. They were almost to the front gate when the older man, the one MacCready had pickpocketed, fell into step beside them. “Hey there, stranger,” the man said, nodding to MacCready. “Name’s Jacob. I run this place. Seems like the bunch of you have been poking around.” A line of Covenant citizens ambled from their houses to bar exiting the settlement.

Their group stopped, and MacCready held his hands out, fully aware that Cait was a step away and armed. “Hey, man, we don’t want any trouble. This just ain’t the place for us. Gonna be heading on.”

Jacob smiled from under his prim hat. “Now, now. Don’t go jumping to any rash conclusions.” The man spoke slowly and concisely, each word landing hard. “But we need to protect our own. I’m sure you understand that.”

There was a commotion behind them and MacCready twisted around. The caravan driver, Dan, was tossed out of the shadows to land at the foot of the tree that fanned thick branches over the entire town. The man fell hard, any fight beaten out of him. Heat traveled up MacCready’s neck as his stomach clenched. There was a perceivable shift in the air. “Looks like your test failed again, Swanson,” a resident remarked, flaunting a shotgun. “One of these trespassers is a synth.”

Jacob snapped his fingers and the wealth of citizens rushed at them. It happened so fast that MacCready and Curie had no time to reach for their weapons. Cait only managed to swing her bat once, connecting with someone’s upraised arm before the three of them were restrained.

“Bitch broke my arm!” someone shouted and MacCready found himself being towed towards the immense tree at the center of town. He was forced to his knees and, as he looked around, found that his friends and the trader were being drawn into a semi-circle, all kneeling, guns leveled at their heads.

Brandishing a revolver, Jacob prowled the assembly, stopping behind the trader, thumbing the hammer. “Which one is it?”

Dan shook his head, shaggy hair swinging. His face was swollen with bruises and blood drippled from his mouth. “I told you,” he growled, coughing. “I don’t know for sure. They didn’t tell me.”

Jacob fired his gun and the front of Dan’s head exploded outwards in a shower of brain, bone and blood. The three from Sanctuary jerked, stunned into silence. Jacob cleared his throat and smoothed his tie, revolver still smoking at his side. “Apologies. That wasn’t very neighborly at all. Let’s try again.” He continued roving the circle. “Hypothetically – say that one of you is a synth. Which one would it be?”

MacCready’s eyes danced all over the scene. Cait was boring holes into Jacob’s face, muscles jumping in her cheeks as she ground her teeth. Curie stared at MacCready, as if pleading with him, but his jaw was fixed shut. A wrong word could be disastrous. Dan’s body lay in a heap, leaking an even-spreading pool of blood.

Silence stretched, townsfolk fingering their weapons while Jacob wove his way between each of them, stepping over Dan’s corpse, studying their expressions. “No? No one?” he asked. The three of them remained mute. He huffed a disappointed sound. “I supposed we’ll have to gamble, then. One out of three. Take him to the compound.”

At a gesture from Jacob, two inhabitants grabbed MacCready by the arms and hauled him to his feet. Cold fear shot through his limbs. “Whoa, whoa, wait! No! I’m not a damn synth!” he shouted as he was dragged from the circle kicking and struggling. Cait lurched to her feet and engaged in a brief struggle before being subdued by a rifle stock striking her in the back.

Amid that sudden swell of terror, it dawned on MacCready that this fear of synths was dumb and unfounded, costing of lot of real people their lives. How many had died being falsely accused, shouting the truth up until the end to no avail? With eager hands grabbing at him, hoisting him off the ground, it seemed like MacCready was about to join the ranks of the condemned. Christ, had more people had died this way than actual synths?

“Non!” Curie screamed, her high voice cutting through Cait’s yelling and the shouting of the townspeople. She lurched to her feet, gun barrels following her, still trained on her face. “Stop it! It is me! You will leave him alone!”

“Curie…” MacCready breathed as the threat to him stalled, people pausing as they heard her.

“Oui. I confess,” she said, ignoring him and addressing the entire town. “I am guilty. I am not, nor have I ever been, human. My associates did not know of this. I have, how you say, bamboozled them.”

MacCready was thrown forward, landing hard on his palms, minute bits of gravel cutting into the skin. Cait flew herself to his side as two men grabbed Curie roughly by the arms. The word ‘ _wait_ ’ never made it out of MacCready’s mouth. Fighting for Curie would undoubtedly assure that all three of them would be condemned. He and Cait found their feet and were forced out through the opening gate by the people of Covenant.

Motioning to Curie with his gun barrel, Jacob told her, “See? That wasn’t difficult at all. You’ll gladly remain here. The two of you” – he addressed MacCready and Cait, standing just outside the entry – “should probably pick your friends a little more carefully next time. And let’s keep this little incident between us. No hard feelings, right? We all have to do our part to keep the Commonwealth safe and secure for everyone.”

The last MacCready saw of Curie was the resigned stare that she gave him. _It is all right_ , she seemed to be saying though pleased, if worried, eyes. _I was truthful and helped you. That’s what matters_. She gave a small smile as the gate swung shut, stealing her from view. The doors sealed with a heavy clang, turrets still whirring above the wall.

In a moment of desperate insanity, guilt clawing at his insides, MacCready kicked at the doors, as if to break his way back in. _And then what? Be shot for my troubles?_ He stepped away from the wall.

“Hell,” Cait cursed, rubbing her hands against her thighs. Unarmed, she seemed intensely uneasy. “We goin’ for Nate?”

It was a knee-jerk reaction to go to Nate with any problem that reared. His heart heavy, MacCready shook his head. “Out of range. And with the Brotherhood.”

“Minutemen?”

“They don’t have the numbers,” he reminded, yanking his hat off to rake fingers through his hair.

A spark of sudden inspiration struck, and he jammed his cap back on, throwing himself into a run, chasing the road north. He heard Cait’s steel-toed shoes plod the pavement a step behind. “Hold up!” she cried. “Where you off to?”

“Back to Sanctuary,” he called over a shoulder, not breaking stride. “Gotta hop on the radio. Synth in jeopardy – time to ring the gong for the Railroad.”


	10. Countersigns and Codenames

DEACON

Railroad HQ, MA

April 15th, 2288

Floating lazily in a vast sea of nothing, Deacon couldn’t find much to care about. Sure, he was slowly falling, but that was no reason to be concerned. This was one of his favorite places, one of the few times that he could be alone and safe. Well, at least it felt that way on this side. On the other side, zombie dinosaurs could be tearing the Commonwealth apart and he wouldn’t be the wiser.

Eventually, his lethargic freefall came to an end. Sensation prickled as awareness returned. His body became solid again, and heavy, way too heavy, his arms and legs dead weight as he lay on his back. His mind settled back into reality, the faint sounds of Railroad HQ beat against his eardrums. A harsh scraping echoed through the crypt – Glory disassembling a weapon. There was a sizzle and a pop – Tinker Tom doing things that he probably shouldn’t. Right beside his head, a match lit, scratching and _whooshing_ into flame. He struggled to pull his weighty eyelids apart. Opening them a fraction, he found Desdemona looking down at him, a cigarette in her hand and a sour puss on her face. Orange lamplight climbed the stone walls, stagnant, with no air flow to disrupt the flames. Momentarily, he was startled. Everything was too clear, too bright, and it took him a few seconds to realize why.

“Shades, please,” he asked with a thick, dry tongue. His voice was hoarse and low, a side effect of time spent under anesthesia.

Dez stamped her cigarette out and leaned in closer, fishing something from a pocket. She affixed his sunglasses onto his face and familiar shades of gray fell over his field of vision. Something large and white fell into view. Carrington, in his lab coat, stretched across Deacon to pull an empty bag of saline down from the IV stand and replace it with a fresh one.

“I had the strangest dream,” Deacon rasped. “And you were there, and you were there –”

“I don’t need a recap, Deacon,” Desdemona said, devoid of mirth. His jokes never quite landed with her. “I need you to answer a few questions.”

He cleared his throat, wincing at the scratchiness in his windpipe. “Hit me. But not literally. My noodle arms would make for a lame defense.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Somewhere over the rainbow. It’s a little drabber than anticipated. Gotta say, I’m disappointed.” He rose up on his elbows, triggering a dull throb at the back of his bald head. His fingers brushed over the spot, finding a small stitched incision at the base of his skull. Cool. Chicks digged scars, especially Curie. Deacon found himself smiling.

“Do you recognize me?”

Smile twisting into a smirk, he answered, “One of the witches. Did I get that right?”

“Seriously?” Carrington asked from nearby. “You expect that he’d give you accurate answers? The fact that he’s as infuriating as usual proves that there were no complications.”

Desdemona cast Carrington a wry look before dropping her gaze to Deacon. “Do you know your name?”

He hesitated to respond. Still emerging from the fuzzy, helpless bubble of surgery, he couldn’t be certain that he wouldn’t divulge his real name.

Desdemona ignored his silence and rolled on. “Do you know what we’ve done to you?”

He sat up, albeit with some difficulty. “Augmentation,” he answered clearly. “Now I can carpool to the Institute with Fixer. Thank God, ‘cause that commute was killer.”

It had taken the Railroad time to figure out what to do with the courser chip Deacon had… _procured_ from X6-88. Once the courser’s synth component had been cracked open with the delicate finesse of an archeological dig, Tinker Tom revealed the Courser Chip within. It had been a simple looking thing, fragile and tiny, a circuit board about the size of an old-world postage stamp. That diminutive device was now implanted in Deacon’s cranium.  

Like most of the Railroad’s crazy theories, the idea to hitch a ride via courser component had been Tom’s. And why wouldn’t it work? Synths were made of the same squishy meat as regular humans, just Institute brand instead of generic. Both Carrington and Amari had consulted and deemed the attempt sound. Deacon still didn’t fully understand the mechanics of what had been done to him – that was Carrington’s and Amari’s job – but he trusted both doctors with his life, and anyways, he never could say no to a surgery.   

Music floated through the crypt, soft and relaxing. Letting his senses travel, Deacon tried to pinpoint the source. “Somebody trying to soothe the savage beast with that music?” he asked. Their headquarters normally sounded as dead as the pre-war residents did in their tombs. “Why do we suddenly have ambiance? It’s like being stuck in an elevator.”

Frowning, Desdemona replied, “The radios are off, Deacon. There isn’t any music playing.”

His brows drew together. He concentrated on the notes, trying to place them and wasn’t too surprised when he succeeded. The barest hint of classical tunes echoed dully from within his own head. Fixer had mentioned some connection between the Institute’s transport frequency and the classical music station, but Deacon hadn’t guessed that it would translate to an ongoing, unavoidable resonance. Although it made him feel slightly akin to Beethoven, it was distracting, and his brain felt crowded. He gave Desdemona a crooked grin. “Just joshing you. I know, one of my lamer jokes. Even I wouldn’t laugh at that. I mean, pfft, music.” He rolled a shoulder. “Who cares about the arts anymore, am I right?”

He didn’t feel bad about lying to Dez – he didn’t have much of an emotional barometer about lying to _anyone_ – but having her panic and pull the plug on a backdoor option into the Institute just wouldn’t do. He was now in a rare category with Fixer, able to slip in and out of the facility unnoticed or detected. Hmm. He was going to have to stock up on additional costumes… However, if a full synth recall ever came to pass, resulting in anyone owning a courser chip or a synth component being beamed directly into the Institute, Deacon was going to find himself royally screwed along with the rest of synthkind. The odds of that kind of maneuver being initiated on behalf of the Institute were nearly nonexistent – every undercover synth and Institute field agent would be compromised, decades of planning annihilated in a single instant. Only an endgame scenario would merit such an event. He shuddered to think of the day that the Institute would consider launching a full force attack. Would the Railroad be targeted first, posing a real threat, or last, to merely wipe out a nuisance?

Deacon sat and mused on that grim thought until Carrington allotted him his release. Pulling needles from Deacon’s arms, he said, “As there are no impediments from the procedure, I give you full clearance to return to your normal duties.”

Deacon slid down from the gurney, the stone floor cold beneath his socks. He rubbed his thumb over a pinprick of blood on the back of his hand. “Cool. That’s one thing to love about the Railroad – the free health care. That, and my very own cubicle.”

“Don’t wander,” Desdemona warned, retreating to her standard corner of the tomb. “We’ll want to get you to do recon with Fixer as soon as he’s back in the area.”

“Every lone wolf needs a lamb,” he told her affirmatively.

He rolled his head back and forth, adapting to the soft swell and fade of music. After a short hunt for his sneakers, he retreated to his workstation as HQ buzzed around him. Wiggling the sneakers on, he scanned an abnormally stout pile of folders and paperwork. A fraction of a familiar face peered back, the photo slipping from one of the folders. His mouth bent grimly, and he flipped the file open.

The M7-97 case file was still unresolved, unusual for a synth in Deacon’s caseload. It was hard not to feel for Danse’s situation, and Deacon felt the slightest bit guilty for his initial judgements of the man. The former paladin’s laughably mechanical speech pattern was all Institute botchery – the Railroad did a way better job. It was like some Institute scientist had programmed Danse with only the broadest of strokes, mocking the way they thought a good soldier would talk and act, all business and decorum with little underneath. Well, least that was how it seemed.

Most synths were damn happy to be given a way out of their old lives, ecstatic for anyone to even talk to them as equals. But Danse and Harkness were too similar, stubborn and stuck in their ways – neither were wiped, relocated, or surgically altered after their reckoning. Mulishly clinging to their old lives, both had refused the standard Railroad offerings, as had Glory. Deacon blinked up at her, gazing over the folder. Was she even happy? Doubtful. He’d never seen her crack a smile for any reason other than for the promise of bloodshed or schadenfreude. Then again, she was probably one of those people that was comfortable in their own misery.

“Yo, D!” Tinker Tom shouted. Deacon closed the file and slid it under the rest his paperwork. “One of your Minuteman adjacent buddies is barking over the horn,” Tom said, poking his head out of PAM’s alcove, and gesturing with thumb over his shoulder.

“Personal parameters are being invaded,” PAM’s voice droned. “Please exit my research bay.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tom muttered, scuttling out of her niche as Deacon strode in. Tom had a collection of copper wires and fiber optics in one hand. “You keep hogging the good stuff. Spread the wealth, baby,” he chirped as he exited.

Deacon was tall enough the reach the radio on top of PAM’s shelf with no trouble. He pulled the microphone down, punched the transmit button, and said, “Welcome to the R&R Slop ‘n’ Go. Can I interest you in a Freedom Shake?”

“ _Hey, uh, Deacon. It’s MacCready_.”

“Countersigns and codenames, man,” Deacon insisted.

“ _Dude, I don’t know what any of those are_!”

He wished there was a way to transmit an eye-roll via airwave. “Then cut it short. And be sneaky.”

MacCready gave a quick sigh into the microphone on his end, making static hiss from the speakers near Deacon’s ear. He leaned away from the noise and then back in.

“ _We, uh…. well… we kinda lost Curie…_ ”

It felt like Deacon had been splashed with ice water. PAM stomped about, doing her thing, and low chatter drifted through the crypt. Life went on in the way it did, oblivious to the cold feeling creeping down Deacon’s back. Keeping his face a mask, he asked, “What, like, you misplaced her? Did you retrace your steps? Maybe look in the fridge? I swear, that’s where I leave my keys all the time.”

“ _No. Dee… she was taken. I’m sorry. It was a real shitsto – crappy situation, and she took a proverbial bullet for us_.”

A strange sense of overwhelmingly numb calm took root, and Deacon dared to ask, “…is she alive?” Weird. Deacon didn’t feel much of anything. Curie adored him and they were hip-deep in a physical relationship. He should feel – what? Fright? Horror? Maybe his stance on not getting too attached to anyone had left scarring so deep that nothing could penetrate. That was… disturbing, but not surprising. 

“ _She was. Cait and I just got back from some town called Covenant, looking for some missing people. Seems like the place goes out of their way to nab synths._ ” Another crackle of static before the line cleared. _“Figured you’d want to know and work whatever magic you’ve got. Ya know – poof. Stealth boys and subterfuge_.”

Wracking his brain for locations, he mentioned, “Place with a big concrete barrier by the river? Looks like they’re braced for the Spanish Inquisition?” If a place existed in the Commonwealth, Deacon knew about it.

“ _Sure sounds like the place_.”

Deacon nodded. “On it. Thanks, man.”

“ _You’re, uh… you’re gonna get her back, right_?” MacCready sounded shockingly concerned, especially given his outburst a few days prior.

“Goin’ in guns blazing. Just wait for it. I’m gonna be riding a radstag and wielding a blunderbuss in each hand.”

“ _That might make it difficult to shoot. Keeps us posted_.”

“Will do.” With that, Deacon replaced the microphone and switched the receiver off. Intending to raise the Railroad call-to-arms, he took a few strides out of PAM’s alcove and toward Desdemona’s dais. Covenant sure sounded like a priority-one situation, and who knew now many synths had been ambushed there, or what they’d gone through while detained. A rush of heat spread up Deacon’s neck, making his ears tingle, and he abruptly changed course, zigzagging and staggering into the back hallway. Alone, he sank down on his haunches.  

Like a wave rolling forward, the numbness turned over and Deacon felt a surge of disorienting rage, a black curtain swinging down over his field of vision. An image emerged from his past – a woman, a synth, screaming his name, begging for him to save her. He had failed her, and despite the bloody swath he’d carved, he had still found her hung and dissected at the end of it. His head jerked back as he fought to clear his mind. _Whoa now. Uh-uh. We don’t think about that **.**_ Did that even happen? Were those memories even legit? Lies and reality were too deeply entangled, stories twisted and retold told too many times to be properly recalled. Still, it was easy to imagine Curie’s lilting voice calling for him, a facsimile, a stand-in for that vague reverie.  

In his career, Curie hadn’t been the first synth to lean on him a little too heavily. Take one scared synth viewing the world for the first time and pair them with a savior that had all the answers and, boom, instant case of hero-worship. Sexual relationships between newly liberated synths and their Railroad handlers were common, almost customary, and the synths would remember nothing of the encounter post-wipe and relocation. He liked to think that most high-level agents were above taking advantage like that, but the truth was that they weren’t. He certainly wasn’t. Although he hadn’t been Curie’s handler, he seemed to have all the answers she was seeking regarding her new body, and he had been more than willing to oblige her request to experiment. Helping a synth out was what the Railroad – and by extension, Deacon – did best. Once, he’d loaned her his French maid outfit and, boy, that had been pretty much the best idea ever. And it was for science! Surely, that created a moral loophole that let him off the hook.

Although it had taken some explaining that sexual sensations did not equal _being in love_ , life with Curie was blissfully easy, almost delightful. He was safe with her. She would never pry or ask him to make promises that he knew he couldn’t keep. She could live forever on a diet of insight and physical sensation. He could keep her at a distance and deny any romantic inkling. Emotions and him, they didn’t get along. Better to box them up and store them elsewhere. It was their agreement, something that was easy and fun with no complications. 

Yet now, an onslaught of images battered Deacon’s mind. What was happening to Curie right now? Were her captors raping her? Maybe. Probably. That was one of those peculiar reactions that men had towards things that they hated and didn’t understand. That was an experience that didn’t belong in her notes. No, he’d… he’d kill every one of her captors with his bare hands if that was the case, paint walls with their blood, tear and destroy until he was dripping in gore, suffocating under the strain of his vengeance. He pictured the same woman as before, dangling from a chain noose, her entrails spilling from her open abdominal cavity. In a sporadic succession, her hair shifted from Curie’s short, dark pixie to Barbara’s flowing red curls.

Deacon lowered his head and ground his teeth so hard his molars hurt. Standing, he leveled one punch at the crumbling brick wall. The sudden burst of pain in his hand steadied him and he resumed his purposeful path to his superior. He jammed his bloodied knuckles into the pocket of his jeans. Stupid wall.

He found Desdemona swathed in a haze of cigarette smoke and disorder. Drummer was yammering in her ear while she glowered down at the notices littering her workspace. Deacon’s keen ears caught a few words; “Stockton,” and “Synth” and “Covenant”. 

“Hey, Dez,” Deacon interjected. “Looks like word is out on that Covenant place. Ya know, the one with the entry exam? Somebody I know got carted off there.”

“Which one? The Asshat of Steel or that fake synth?” Glory spat from nearby. Deacon turned to glare at her. Glory righted the minigun she’d been working on and glowered right back at him. “She’s not even real person, you know. She’s just riding around in someone else’s body.”

Glory had been ongoingly vocal about her displeasure at having Curie’s consciousness transferred to G5-19’s body. She and G5 had been… close. She argued that by choosing to endorse Curie’s upload, it validated Wastelanders’ claims that the Railroad was one step away from liberating vending machines, hurting their cause overall.

“Her name is Curie,” he corrected Glory, who just snorted in return. Deacon looked back at Desdemona. She was watching him without a shred of pity on her face, the red-hot glow of her smoke centered between her lips. He shrugged at both women. “Look, I’m not an idiot,” he tried to explain. “I know that she’s the least real synth out there, but this what we do – help synths. All of them. Even the former bigoted idiots. And due to intel that just fell outta the sky, turned out plenty have been nabbed at that location.”

“Old Man Stockton’s daughter was out that way,” Drummer shared, his conversation no longer secret. “No word from her since.”

“Amelia Stockton?” Glory asked from nearby. “Sweet girl. Can’t fire a gun to save her life. She’s gonna get eaten alive by those bastards that grabbed her.” Standing, she hefted her minigun. “We rolling in after her?”

Desdemona shook her head, flicking ash. “We’d be too late. The location is on the other side of the Commonwealth. But we owe Stockton as much as we can give. I’ll have Caretaker dispatch a team of heavies to handle it. They’ll pull any synths they find and bring them to the usual place for reassessment.”

“Meaning Bunker Hill?” Deacon noted, glad that Amelia’s peril could sway a rescue attempt, even if Curie’s couldn’t.

“Of course,” Desdemona confirmed, returning the cigarette to her mouth. She blew a trail of smoke and gestured with the lit tip. “Glory, build a team. I want an interrogation squad ready to meet the group post retrieval. We need to know what we’re up against. Covenant may be one place in a chain used to eradicate synths. Or suspected synths.”

“Lookit you,” Deacon gushed, beeming at Desdemona in a wry manner. “So certain that no one’s gonna die in this.” He made for his workstation to retrieve his weapons. “C’mon, Glor,” he said over his shoulder. “Let’s go meet our intrepid heroes when they return from battle.”

“Not you, Deacon,” ordered Desdemona. “We didn’t entrust you with that tech in your head just to get it blown up. You’re here or you’re in the Institute with Fixer. We can’t risk you in the field. Not anymore.”

He turned so slowly to face her, disbelief churning in his gut, bringing a hand up to cup his ear. “Pardon? I was oxygen deprived during that operation. Could’ve sworn you just put me under house arrest.”

Sighing, Desdemona stamped out her cigarette. “I knew that you wouldn’t approve. But feel it the right thing to do. You’re our secret agent and our best hope for destroying the Institute. No more risks. No more wandering. No more disappearing. We have to keep you safe.”

Anger bubbled inside of him. “Hey, I never signed up to be an indoor kitty,” he said, slicing the air with his hand, the bloody one. “You really think I’m gonna stay put and take up canasta while you all go on fighting without me?” He wanted to be furious with her. Truth be told though, he had to honor her deception. Desdemona had taken a page straight out of his book – furthering the cause through doublespeak and paper-thin promises. So this is what it felt like to be on the other side of a scam. Kinda burned a little. Faint music still chimed in his head, the melody turning mournful and ironic.

“You will, and you’ll be happy to do so,” Desdemona retorted. “Be flattered. You’ll be one of the first on site during the fight for the Institute. You might even get to fire the first shot. Until that point, Glory is our lead agent.”

Glory’s proud smile and hard eyes chilled him to the bone.


	11. Human Error

CURIE

Covenant, MA

April 15th, 2288

Curie’s stomach rumbled. The entire digestive process – while fascinating – could be quite inopportune. Comforts such as a hot meal or a soft mattress were not to be accommodated for someone in her situation. She sat in a small prison, a quaint side room attached to a stately office by a door laced with wire mesh. Through the windows of her cell, she could spot a few twinkling stars suspended in a black sky. The only source of light in the building was that of moonlight slipping in through the windows, casting long shadows that crept along the floorboards.

The front door to the domicile banged open, and Jacob, in his porkpie hat, entered, accompanied by two other men. With disgusted expressions they unlocked her cell and reached in to grab her. She didn’t fight back as they pulled out and bound her hands. It would have been foolish to engage them in combat, her without weapons and outnumbered. A blindfold dropped over her eyes, adding to her helpless state.

She truly pitied these men, to live in such an enormous time of creation and rebirth, and choose, instead of being joyous and inventive, to be frightened and cruel. But to err was human, she supposed as they marched her out of the building and down the promenade. A squealing sound came from the front gate, metal hinges grinding. A fresh breeze caressed her face, unhindered by the concrete barrier that surrounded the town. She was being removed from Covenant, she grasped. But where to after that, she couldn’t begin to imagine. She was disturbingly intrigued as to what was going to happen to her, curiosity laced with fear. 

The men that escorted her said little. They told her to step into something that wobbled, swaying left to right – a boat. For a few minutes, all she heard was the slapping of water against the keel and faint splashing as paddles dipped into the river, driving them onwards. After only a few minutes, the boat ran ashore, rocks scraping at the hull. Curie was hoisted out of the transport and found herself submerged in chilly water up past her knees. A shove against her back urged her forward, wading in the direction she was guided. The clank and squeal of a metal door echoed dully. Was she being taken into a tunnel? A shove propelled her forward and the door slammed shut behind her. After a short walk, the water became shallower and she was on dry land once more.

“Got a new one, Manny,” one of her captors said.

“Haul it down to processing,” was the bored reply.  

Curie almost stumbled as a tug on her arm nearly yanked her off her feet. She blindly plodded alongside her captors, turning as they guided her, marching her deeper and deeper into a maze of a dungeon that stank of stale air and wet earth. She passed by a chamber where a woman was screaming in breathless terror. Or pain. The sound echoed down the corridor making Curie’s stomach knot.

“Heya, Doc Blythe,” someone in her party addressed. The voice sounded familiar. “Where you want it?”

“Room two.”

Curie was turned and pushed to one side. By the sound of her shoes hitting the ground, she could tell that she now stood on metal and had left the dirt-packed path behind. After a few steps forward, she was spun and pushed backways until she felt herself falling into a chair. Clasps secured around her ankles and her bound wrists were momentarily freed before being strapped down onto armrests. An additional band circled her forehead and the blindfold fell away to reveal a sizable room stuffed with tables, equipment, and storage. A strange collection within a chamber composed of brick walls and exposed dirt.

She was briefly relieved to see a man in a lab coat, prepping a tall machine to her right. Just as swiftly, she evicted that reaction from her mind. If she was in a vault, odds of horrendous experimentation were high. But neither the room nor the doctor’s coat were clean enough to signify that her kidnapping was endorsed by Vault-Tec personnel. Still, the sight of another doctor made her stomach unknot by a fraction.

The man in the lab coat, who must have been the person called Blythe, approached and leaned over Curie. He shook out the wires on a few electrodes and adhered them to her skin, the round nodes sticking to her temples and just below her collarbone. Her eyes followed the wires up to the big machines by her side, guessing that it must be an electrocardiogram and a brain wave monitor. The woman on the other side of the wall continued to wail. Blythe punched a few buttons on a nearby console and the equipment attached to Curie hummed to life. Feeling a guilty flush, she wished that she could watch whatever procedure was about to occur. But she would be the subject on this experiment, not an observer.

Blythe slid away to access a terminal, drawing Curie’s eyes as he moved. She spotted the greaser from the gate standing over by some waist-high cabinets, pouring himself a cup of coffee while two guards in shabby gear flanked him, carrying their weapons close to their chests, looking anxious to use them. The screaming from the other room abruptly stopped and silence pierced at Curie’s ears for a few tense seconds. A creak and grind signified a door being opened and closed again. A second round of the same sounds occurred in the room Curie was held in.

Everyone in the room stilled as an older woman entered Curie’s test chamber. She wore a lab coat as well along with a pair of goggles that hid her eyes. She had the type of sour expression that might have sent children running or curdled milk. “Recording now, Dr. Chambers,” Blythe said over his shoulder without looking at her. “Subject 14 ready for baseline testing.”

Curie’s gaze scraped the room. Swanson, from the gate, had settled into a chair at one of the metal tables in room, their tabletops covered in notes, folders and equipment, leisurely sipping from his mug. The guards were shifting, scavvers, not soldiers or Gunners used to long hours of diligent attention. With a start, she noted familiar pre-war posters plastered to support columns and was finally able to place the strange connection she felt with the setup of this facility. “However did you come across this lab equipment?” she asked from within her bonds. “Was it recovered from Vault 75? That seems highly likely.”

Swanson harrumphed from behind his mug. “Speak when spoken to, synth. You wanna get a treatment?”

Curie frowned. “I am unsure. I will need more information regarding this _treatment_.”

“What’s with the accent?” one of the guards mumbled to the other. “Beats me,” the second guard responded with a shrug that made his rifle bob up and down.

Clearing his throat, Blythe turned to Curie and spoke clearly. “Congratulations. You made it onto a baseball team. Which position do you prefer?”

It was the same question given at the gate to Covenant. She couldn’t recall the answer she had given and struggled to generate a response. “I… it was… Oh! I remember this. One of my colleagues, he had a holovid of one of these events. I would be – who is it? – the man in the box? The one with the microphone.”

“…the announcer?” Blythe’s face had a blank look.

“Yes! The one that watches the entirety of the game and makes the comments.”

 Blythe spared a glance at Chambers, whose scowl deepened. “Um… why?” Blythe asked.

“To document and observe the proceedings, of course,” Curie chirped merrily.

The guards looked at each other. Swanson paused with his mug in the air, one brow lowered.

“I… yes. Noted,” Blythe said as Chambers drifted closer, her eyes hidden behind the large googles. Blythe moved on. “Next question. Your grandmother invites you to tea, but you're surprised when she gives you a pistol and orders you to kill someone. What do you do?”

Curie hummed and wore a thoughtful expression. “Is this the first occurrence of such a request? Senior dementia is a quite sad and serious ailment. My recommendation would be to provide a service animal for comfort and companionship. Perhaps a feline.”

Swanson stood and made his way to Chambers. He whispered into her ear, “This one ain’t fightin’ the questioning. The other ones, they fight the whole way through.”

“An anomaly, I agree,” she muttered through a sneer.

“The questions are supposed to be disorienting,” Blythe said, nervously glancing at Curie. “We want a gut response to the test.”

“Oh, I am quite familiar with this assessment,” Curie explained, nodding against her head strap. “It is a derivative of the Generalized Occupational Aptitude Test.”

Everyone in the room froze. “How the hell do you know that?” Swanson sputtered.

“I was an employee of Vault-Tec,” she answered honestly.

“The fuck?” a guard uttered. “Vaults use synths?”

“Oh, no, no,” Curie corrected. “That was after. I have only been a synth for about… hmm… five months? Before that, I was a RobCo robot.”

Confused silence stretched. Stunned glances were traded all around the room.

“It’s lying,” Chambers finally spouted. “Playing games with us.” With a nod from her, Blythe clicked a switch. A jolt of electricity shot through Curie. The room went white as her muscles contracted, the sensation of being burned from the inside out too sharp and painful to quantify. Unable to pry her jaws apart to scream, she rode the agonizing wave to its conclusion. The current passed through her and the event was over almost instantly.

In the aftermath, pins and needles pricking under her skin and her rationale gone hazy, Curie was stunned by the amount of devastation she felt, such disappointment in humanity. Never before had she been on the receiving end of such blatant hated and injustice. Scientific exploration, although misled, she could apprehend, perhaps even support. But cruelty and torture were beyond her realm of comprehension. Her captivity was no longer an inconvenience, and the novelty of participating in their studies dissipated as her body panicked and struggled against its bonds.

Chambers turned her back on Curie, the hem of her lab coat sweeping as she made for the door. “Let it rot in one of the cells until it’s willing to drop the _good subject_ act. Starvation is a powerful motivator, even for these machines. And in the interim, you know the next stage.” As she left, she signaled to the guards, who both straightened and leered at each other. They crossed the room to pull Curie from her chair. She slumped in their arms, exhausted, the aftereffects of the shock running its course. As soon as Blythe disconnected the nodes, Curie found her feet and was escorted further into the compound through winding dirt tunnels and many steel-framed doorways. Bare lightbulbs hung on wires, blindingly white within the subterranean cavern.

The passageway narrowed before expanding into an enlarged underground cavity. A collection of both medical and equipment stations cluttered the cave floor while several cells secured with doors of iron bars lined an elevated section. It was this second story area that Curie was directed to, a guard gripping each of her arms. Dirty and wild-eyed prisoners cowered within the cells, staring fearfully at the guards.

Curie’s entourage stopped before one of the cells. What looked like a pile of rags trembled in a far corner. A guard waved over his shoulder and the cell door slid open with a slight grinding noise. He roughly shoved Curie inside and she fell to her knees. The door rumbled shut behind her, sealing with a clang. One of the guards took a moment to spit at her through the bars before leaving. Footsteps retreated, softening as the sounds were swallowed by the earthen walkways.

The ball of tattered clothes still shivered at the far side of the cell. Curie peeked over her shoulder at the retreating guards and back to her cellmate. She scuttered across the small cage and crouched beside her co-prisoner. The person jumped when Curie’s hand touched their shoulder.

The other captive was a young woman. “No!” she screeched, sobbing. “Not again! Please!” She thrashed backwards, twisting away from Curie. Her hair might have been blonde or light brown but in the dimness of the cave and in her unkempt state it was hard to tell. She had a clear bite mark reddening her neck and no pants.

“It is quite alright,” said Curie, softly. “I have sufficient medical training. If I may, can I check you for injuries?”

“Are you real?” the woman asked, shaking. “Are you a person?”

Curie was taken back for a moment then understood. “If you are asking if I am a human or synth, I am a synth.” Although Deacon had warned her to use caution when speaking to others, spouting untruths went against her nature. The woman didn’t shrink away from her. “What is your name, mademoiselle?”

“A-Amelia.”

“Oh!” Curie said brightly. “Hello. I was sent to rescue you. Although… I suppose such a thing is a bit more difficult now. Are you hurt?”

“I… those men…” Amelia didn’t finish.

She gave Amelia a consoling look. “Oui. I suspected. I am very sorry.”

Amelia’s eyes had gone unfocused. She wrapped her arms protectively around her legs. “They come for me a couple of times a day. Sometimes, they put me in the chair and ask me questions. Sometimes… they take turns…” She gulped and shook her head. “They ask me the questions then, too. The woman with the goggles… she watches.”

A spark of fitting anger burst to life inside of Curie. She was surprised by the strength of it. Her brows knitted and hot warmth spread down her limbs. Curious, she noted, how her heartrate coincided with her emotions. She stood, steadily. Nerves wouldn’t serve to help her position. While MacCready and the others might be planning to liberate her, she couldn’t count on them succeeding. She tore her eyes away and scanned the solid dirt walls. Affixed to one wall was a Tesla trap, its wires snaking out of the cell and down to the first level. “What is this trap used for?” she asked.

Amelia lowered her face, burying it in her arms, forehead against her knees. “They shock us. A few people tried to get out. They got zapped. They… they kept screaming….”

Curie filed the mental image away, storing it for later if she needed additional motivation to extract vengeance on her captors. She turned a sleeping bag over, checking underneath. Continuing to rummage through the cell, Curie flipped over a dinner tray. Beneath it laid a silver fork. A wide grin broke out across her face. Curie swiftly grabbed it, stuffing it into a pocket in her jeans. She swung her head to face Amelia.

The other woman caught her expression and looked at Curie as if she had gone mad. “Why are you smiling?”

“Because you are a survivor,” Curie assured. “As am I. And we will make a grand escape together, you and I, despite the odds.”

“How – how can you promise that?” Amelia sniffled, her eyes widening as if daring to hope.

“I often find myself being underestimated. Strange, no?” Curie stood and looked up at the Tesla trap. She began to unbutton her flannel shirt. “You will tell me if anyone enters this cavern, yes?”

“I… yes.”

Curie shrugged out of her shirt, exposing the white tank underneath. She skidded a bucket over and upended it, hopping on top of it. “Can you walk?” she asked Amelia as she wound the shirt around one hand.

“I can.”

Curie pulled the fork from her pocket and transferred it to her cloth-wrapped hand. “Can you run? Fire a weapon?”

“I… I think so.”

“That is good.” Curie reached up and wedged the fork into the guts of the trap. It made a sizzling sound and the fork glowed red. She jumped down off the bucket and put her shirt back on. “Now, I need your assistance.”

“Okay…” Amelia’s eyes were bright but confused.

“I want you to yell for them. Gather as many as you can up here.”

Amelia froze, not even breathing. Her eyes then flitted back and forth between Curie and the tunnel that housed the guards. “I… what would I say?”

“Lie, if you must. Something about the Institute? Perhaps that they are coming for you?” An army of converging synths looking to reclaim those who had escaped. That seemed like a pretty terrifying persuasion.

Amelia stood, her bare knees knocking in fear. Smiling again, Curie put her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “This is a time for strength. We will persevere, but only with your assistance. Do not be afraid. Be calm yet fierce. I need you as you need me.”

Gulping, Amelia nodded. She strode to the bars and drew a deep breath. “You’ll be sorry!” she cried. “The Institute and all of my synth friends are coming for me!” She looked back at Curie, who signaled for her to keep going. “My father will have sent for them! It’s been days! They’ll be here any minute!”

Two armed guards appeared at the mouth of the cavern. “Shut your cakehole, robo-bitch,” one snarled.

“You keep opening your mouth, I’ll fill it with something,” the other added, letting go of his assault rifle to grab his crotch.

Amelia gave Curie a frantic look of horror.

Curie frowned. The guards were still too far away for her plan to work. _What would Deacon do_? He’d say something to inflame them. Most likely, it would be a cultural reference that no one would understand. Curie recalled a holovid that one of the scientists from Vault 81 had enjoyed. She groped for the meal tray and slid up to the gate, banging it against the bars. “Your mother was a molerat and your father smelt of tarberries!” she shouted.

The guard made an irritated face and shouted to the rear hallway, “Got a ruckus in here! Send somebody to the terminals to teach ‘em some manners!”

“Big man you are, sending someone else in!” Amelia was on fire now, shoulders taut with rage, gripping the bars with whitened knuckles. “Call me a bitch – you’re the bitch, asshole!”

Amelia’s courage must have sparked the survival instincts of the other prisoners. They also approached the bars and began to shout affronts at the guards, pelting them with whatever they could find. Both guards snarled and plodded up the path to the cages, a few more appearing behind them. Doctor Blythe slid past them and scurried to one of the desktops below, punching the keyboard of a terminal.

Curie threw herself to the ground and scrambled to haul the sleeping bag over her head. “Amelia!” she cried. “Quick! Under!” Amelia spun from the gate and dove down next to Curie. They pulled the padding over their bodies as the Tesla trap arced and spat. The sound of charging energy became deafening until the trap exploded in bolts of blue lightning shooting out at all angles in uncontrolled bursts, shooting through the cell bars to strike wildly into the cavern. Curie could see the light dancing between the gap of the sleeping bag and the dirt floor. The guards, previously so intent on inciting wrath on their prisoners, were screaming as forks of electricity found them. “Shut it off!” someone yelled. “Power it down!”

The flashes of blue light died, and Curie threw the fabric cover off. Without power, the cell’s lock released, and the door slid open. One of the guards lay sprawled near to the cage, his armor smoking. His rifle lay where it had fallen, a step away. Curie sprang for it, snagging it by the shoulder strap and yanking it close. The safety was still off and the weapon undamaged. Leaving Amelia behind, Curie stepped out of the cell. She snapped the gun up to her shoulder and released a series of rounds into the remaining guards. A few precise shots to cut down Blythe before he could trigger traps in the other cages. Curie scrambled down to the first level and scrolled through the terminal’s commands **.** Triggering the rest of the cells to unlock, she shouted at the other captives, “You will accompany me! Take the weapons! Defend yourselves!”

She hurried to the doorway and cautiously strode out, watching Amelia follow suit and gesture to the other prisoners to hurry with the barrel of a pistol she had claimed. Curie and the escapees formed a tight group as they wound their way through a labyrinth of passageways, sending a barrage of bullets into anyone who tried to stop them. At long last, a pipe tunnel at the end of one corridor came into view. _Drainage_ , it read. A way out. A rush of relief surged through her. “Come now,” she ordered. “We will –”

A series of bullets stuck the pipe, causing orange sparks to fly. The ragged band dropped into a collective crouch and glanced up. On a brick platform above them stood Swanson with an assault rifle in his hands. Doctor Chambers stood beside him with her pistol leveled. A line of guards flanked them. “The Institute coming for you,” Swanson crooned. “Bullshit. You’re nobody. There ain’t no one coming to save you.”

Amelia and the others looked at Curie, pleading with her to have had some secret backup plan. She wasn’t sure of how to tell them that she was at a loss for solutions.

Something made a clicking noise from within the pipe. Too familiar with the sound, Curie dropped to a sprawl. “Grenade!” she shouted. The others hit the dirt as something small went flying by and detonated. An eruption of disorienting cold filled the cramped quarters along with a cloud of dust, debris, and snowy condensed air.

As her ears rang, Curie saw half a dozen figures swarm from the pipe, firing powerful blasts of blue energy from Gauss rifles at the guards. These newcomers wore heavy coats of reinforced leather and determined expressions. Two lines formed; one line fired relentlessly at the captors, cutting Swanson and Chambers apart, the other recovered the freed captives. One of them gripped Curie by the arm and heaved her into the safety of the tunnel, forcing her to leave the firefight. In stunned confusion, Curie wasn’t sure who these people were.

When the sound of gunfire died, and the strangers reconvened in the tunnel, Curie spotted one questioning Amelia. “Stockton’s daughter?” he asked her.

“I – oh, yes!” Amelia seemed to sag with relief. “Did my father send you?”

Her questioner glanced at another rescuer, who nodded and reached into a pocket. “You’ll understand later,” he said. “Precautionary measures.” The second man stepped forward and plunged a needle into Amelia’s neck. She fell into the first man’s arms. The other survivors seemed to all drop at once, falling into the arms of the people in the coats who all brandished syringes with long needles. Curie had only a moment to panic before she felt a sharp prick in her own neck. A sound like rushing water filled her ears as her body went limp, falling into the arms of one her liberators. Her vision blurred, disorienting her.

“How long ‘til we can transport the lot of them to the usual place?” the man holding Amelia asked as he lifted her slack body.

“With travel and debriefing, we’ll be done in a day, back at Mercer in two,” one of the others answered, their voice becoming muddy. “Standard proceedings. By the book – you know that’s how Desdemona likes it.”

“And the facility?”

“Burn it.”

Curie lost consciousness as she was lifted.


	12. Delaware

DANSE

Milford Memorial Hospital, DE

September 28th, 2280

Danse burst through the double doors of _Admitting,_ throwing them wide, John’s arm slung around his neck. The doors clanged against their frames and allowed a square of sunlight to momentarily flood the lobby. Skeletons littered the floor, some in wheelchairs, or stretched out over the reception area. The doors swung shut, turning the decrepit hospital into a bleak tomb. Foyer windows, caked in soot and grime, prevented daylight from penetrating into the lobby. Several emergency lights glowed in remote corners of the space, pale amber and ruby, spreading weak illumination as far as they could.

Outside, stalking the perimeter of the hospital, a rumbling voice called, “Gonna find you, bleeder! I’ll crack your bones to feast!” A demonic howling accompanied the threat, causing Danse’s already sweaty body to churn out more anxious droplets that ran down his neck. He flung John to the floor, leaving him to curse and clutch at his thigh as Danse ran headlong for the reception area, laser rifle bouncing against his back. He grasped a flag pole still secured to its base, ragged pennant attached, and rushed back to the doors. A guttural, frustrated roar shook the grungy windows. Additional voices thundered outside in response. Danse wedged the pole through the door handles, knotting the flag around it, securing it in place. Something barged into the doors, a slit of sunlight peeking through the crack, and he threw himself back. Danse’s reinforcement held, but it wouldn’t last long against an entire horde of mutants.

He grabbed John by the back of the shirt, hauling him up. He dragged John’s arm over his shoulder again and slid an arm around his waist. Pressed together, they shambled down a hallway, hunting for temporary asylum, John hopping on his uninjured leg as Danse nearly dragged him down the corridor. A trail of blood splattered in their wake.

Danse pulled to a stop before an elevator. “ _Nice fucking day_ , you said,” he growled, punching the elevator recall button. “ _Let’s hang at the lake_ , you said.” No sound came from the elevator shaft. Of course it was broken.

“Can we blame me later?” John grunted between gritted teeth, a palm pressed to his wound. One of his pantlegs was soaked through with blood.

Darting to one side, and eliciting a cry from John, Danse towed him into a stairwell. The choice of up or down played through his mind. The chance of being trapped in a corner basement wasn’t a risk that Danse was willing to take. He began climbing, supporting John, wondering if it would be easier to just carry him. The stairwell was nominally darker than the lobby. At each level they passed, Danse would squint to read the signage for that floor, a single bulb and an exit sign above every door. At a level marked _Surgery_ , he left the stairs behind, pulling John out into a long hallway dotted with those same emergency lights. With every doorway they passed through, Danse dropped John into a chair lining the wall and rigged a barrier, barring a door or tipping furniture into the hall. They moved through an operating theater and into a side room stocked with equipment. Danse’s ragged breathing and John’s pained gasps were the only sounds present in an otherwise still and lifeless space. Inside of a steel storage room with dual entry points, this was as secure a location as they were likely to find. He hoisted John onto a steel table and unslung his rifle, keeping the safety off, placing it out of the way but near enough to grab. Leaving John to grind his palm against his wound, Danse began to collect supplies.

Foolishly thinking that the day was theirs, he and John had been caught unawares by an assemblage of mutants camped under the bridge of a nearby park. Bullets had immediately started flying. Without their supplies, left back at their camp in lieu of what was meant to have been a short stroll, emergency rations were all they had on-hand. The few stimpaks that Danse carried had been used on himself when a series of bullets tore holes through his rifle arm. They had almost been clear of the area when John had taken a shot to his leg, knocking him to the ground and causing his to lose his weapon. In a haze of firefight adrenaline and sudden icy horror, Danse had grabbed him and rushed for the red cross of a sign in the distance. Now maze-deep in the hospital, Danse could finally attend to John’s injury.

“There goes my unsullied record,” John grumbled, his voice hoarse as Danse pulled drawers and cabinets open. “Guess I’m a normal Wastelander now, carrying around a bullet in my body.”

Through some sort of otherworldly luck, John had never taken a bullet before. Danse briefly thanked God that John hadn’t been shot in the head. The image that accompanied that thought made him shudder. He had never desired to be caught in combat with John by his side. He had, in fact, striven for years to avoid such a thing, being overly cautious and avoiding dangerous or unpredictable locales. “What chems do you have?” Danse asked over his shoulder, snatching up various tools necessary to extract the bullet.

“I don’t carry when I’m with you.”

Danse winced as he slammed a drawer closed. He’d waited years for that answer only to get it now, at the absolute worst time. John’s chem use had been a subtle point of contention between them since the beginning. Like Danse’s Brotherhood allegiance, it was something they struggled to compromise on. Both chose to actively overlook these differences of opinion in favor of preserving their relationship, opting for selected ignorance over conflict.

Prying first-aid boxes apart and rummaging through rows of chems revealed a single stimpak, a bottle of antiseptic and, blessedly, a bottle of Hydra. “Here,” Danse said, handing the bottle to John. “Drink this.” He then collected the items he had accumulated and deposited them on a surgical tray, which he placed next to John’s hip. Under the weak gleam of flicking florescent tubes, he nudged John’s hand out of the way and ripped the fabric of John’s khakis apart, exposing the injury. The jostling of getting him here had done John’s leg no favors, obliterating any clot that tried to form, leaving the blood fresh and bright red.

Danse attended to him, cool efficiency pushing away fear. John was hardly the first person that Danse had played medic to. As a high-ranking officer, he had to be apt at all fields, including medical training should their field scribe be lost. He fumbled to inject a stimpak, which would force the bullet closer to the surface of John’s skin while knitting torn muscle left in its wake. Extracting the enlarged needle, Danse discarded it and unscrewed a bottle of antiseptic, splashing some over the wound. John ground his teeth and hissed, pulling the bottle away from his lips. “Finish it,” Danse commanded. The Hydra would work to repair any nerve damage that had been sustained.

John complied, still grimacing. He resembled a bloodied pin-up reminiscent of Nuka-Girl, lounging propped up on one arm, elbow on the knee of his good leg, pulling a long draught from the Hydra bottle.

“Don’t move.” Danse took hold of John’s slender thigh, bracing himself and keeping John’s leg still to avoid further damage. With the opposite hand, he dug into the wound with forceps, bringing forth a jagged scream from John, until metal hit metal. With teeth clenched, he eased the projectile out, careful not to twist it. Danse deposited the bullet onto the tray, where it landed with a clink. “It’s done. How do you feel?” Danse asked, putting pressure on the bullet hole until the stimpak could complete its job, sealing the wound entirely.

John’s eyes were squeezed shut. He gasped through his teeth, twisted one hand into thumbs-up gesture and shook it in the air, shivering as though he had been hit by an unexpected draft. “Feels awesome. Five stars. I’d recommend getting shot to all my friends.” He looked pale and green under the florescent lighting. The empty bottle of Hydra dangled in his hand. Having lost a fair amount of blood during their escape, what John needed were blood packs. Unfortunately, none were stocked within the supply room.

Flushed with guilt, Danse stammered, “I… I’m sorry. I should have done a better job at scouting the area. I should have been more diligent. I should have –”

“Stop. You ain’t gotta make yourself upset.” John propped himself up with both arms, his legs stretched out over the table. Still wan, he was shaking, the after effects of shock clearing out of his system. “Shit happens,” he wheezed, struggling to force his labored breathing into a normal rhythm. “My number was up. That’s all.”

Danse averted his eyes and checked the nearly-closed wound as his stomach twisted. The terror that he’d been holding at bay crashed over him. Even though the threat had passed, the fear that this might have been the day he lost John overwhelmed him. His hands shook as he wiped his bloody fingers clean with a dampened rag. Tentatively, he glanced back up.

Catching his gaze, John gave a lop-sided smile. Nearly all of John’s teeth were straight, but his incisors unusually sharp; he had bitten Danse a little too aggressively at times, drawing blood. He liked that John was small-framed – it made him feel defaulted into the role of the hero. He and Cutler had been nearly identical in build, equals on the battlefield and in their lives. John was about as capable as any normal Wastelander, which was to say _not very_ in comparison to Danse’s training, and he had taken great pride in being his guardian. “It was my duty to protect you. I’m… ashamed to have failed at that.”

A short, huffing laugh escaped John’s throat. John’s hazel eyes looked a muddy color, brown mixed with green, half-lidded and losing focus as the Hydra crept through his system, causing sweat to bead on his forehead and his pupils to expand. “Why?” he asked, sounding breathless and astonished, high on Hydra. “I ain’t the kinda person someone looks out for. I’m a mess and a fuck up.”

John’s self-loathing was normally subtler. After a brief hesitation, Danse responded, “I don’t think those things.”

“You would,” John insisted, shaking his head, a crease forming between his brows. “You don’t know what I do when you aren’t around, who I am. My days all blend together. I write and I catalog and I chart and I just… lose time until I can see you again.” John’s voice gradually increased in pitch. “I don’t feel. Dan, I don’t feel anything. S’why I shoot up and take pills and breathe Jet… I can’t _feel_ anything. There’s just you. You’re all I got. And I know that ain’t fair, but I can’t help it. I miss you. I’m always missing you. When I wake up and you’re not there, I don’t know where I am. I’m fuckin’ lost.” John seemed to shake himself from his reverie, blinking at his surroundings. “Shit. I’m sorry. I whine like a bitch when I drink Hydra.”

Danse pointedly ignored John’s blubbering comments. They made his insides coil anxiously. “You’ve had limb injuries before?”

Glancing away, John stared down at the floor. “No. Wasn’t why I took it. I drank it because I could. Cause it was there. It’d fuck me up just as well anything else.”

John’s nonsense blabbering wasn’t entirely unfounded. True, Danse had no way to know what John was like outside of the handful of times they saw each other every year, but that he would somehow revert to a persona that Danse found repellant was unlikely. They were happy. The moment was all that mattered when they were together; it calmed Danse, shutting down the endless clamor of his mind. The constant static of negative white noise filling his head since Adams’ Air Force Base had quieted. On leaves, all his concerns fell away, replaced instead by a calm confidence, even dappling in silliness just to hear each other laugh. Often, Danse was happy to just sit and let John talk, listening to the sound of his knife rasping against his whetstone as he spoke of politics and commerce and picked Danse’s brain about world events.

John knew everything. About Cutler, about Rivet City, his hopes, his fears – there was nothing left to share. In his own time, John had revealed his secrets, as well – Stacia and the baby they never had, the history of John’s drug use, his time with Garrett and West and what had happened to them. Danse did his best to not judge him and he knew, without question, that John loved him. Danse understood his faction was the only issue that caused strife between them in an otherwise simple and respectful relationship.

Here, in the cold room with the flickering lights, John was hunched over, gaze locked on a linoleum floor. Danse moved to kneel on the ground, looking up at him, forcing John’s eyes to meet his. “I could never be as hard on you as you are on yourself,” Danse insisted. “Yes, my time is filled when we’re apart, but I do wonder and worry about you.” He exhaled hard. Words didn’t form easily for Danse, and he tried to piece each sentence together with great care. “I do love the Brotherhood. It serves a greater purpose than my own subsistence and runs deeper to me than any religion or national pride could. But there are fractions of my life, pieces that are entirely my own, which only exist when I step away. Knowing that you are somewhere out there, willing to risk not only your life but your very soul to stand beside me, to trust me with your heart… it keeps me going. Each time I see you, it feels like coming home. This is why I’m alive. If I was anyone but myself and my life was my own, I would get down on my knees and beg you to share your life with me.”

John’s Hydra-cloudy eyes cleared a bit, and he gave a bittersweet grin. “You _are_ on your knees,” he gently pointed out.

The slight smile that had built on Danse’s face froze as he noticed that John was correct. It struck him that this was _the moment_ , the instance when any normal person would pull the proverbial trigger and take the next step with to building a life with the person you loved. Instead, Danse feel paralyzed. John had been quite vocal about wanting more than Danse could give. But a life with John… what on Earth had he been suggesting? Such a thing was beyond the realm of possibility, something that could never be. He felt a wave a stifling guilt for even motioning it. He had walked into a bar in Alexandria and taken John for a ride with no destination, wasting his time and his life. And for how long now? Three years? How much longer could they continue if nothing changed?

“I’m sorry,” Danse whispered, blood draining from his face. “I can’t... I can’t do that. I don’t see how I ever could.” He hung his head.

“It’s fine,” John answered softly, if a bit quickly.

“Is it?”

There was an uncomfortable pause. “Shit, Dan. It is what it is.”

It was an awful blow to let John down this way. It seemed to Danse that the only aspect of his life he excelled at was his career. He wasn’t certain of how to navigate a life accounting for the needs of another person. Things had been so much easier with Cutler. Their lives had been so intertwined that Danse hadn’t needed to think about their futures. Both soldiers in the same squadron and often assigned to the same team, nearly every day had been spent by the other’s side.

Danse hadn’t properly guarded himself against the possibility that they could one day be separated by tragedy. Both had been reckless and hotheaded in their youth, traits that had been carried from Rivet City to the Citadel. Rather than safeguard their future by ensuring an unbreakable partnership both public and permissible, Danse focused on his own trajectory, and had left Cutler to his own devices. When the opportunity came for Cutler to volunteer for the mission that had ultimately cost him his life, Danse had been elsewhere, busy with his own career. Had Cutler taken the assignment in order to pass the time until Danse’s return? Danse would never know. He had rushed to aid him as soon as he was able, only to arrive too late.

The image of Cutler’s hulking, newly-mutated body loomed before him. Cutler’s face, his human one and his mutated visage, fused together in Danse’s mind to mock his memories. Danse pressed his fingers to his temples, as if he could rub the image away with pressure. A list began to form, a roster of all those that had trusted and served, both under Danse and at his side, that had lost their lives due to decisions that he had made. He felt himself falling, sinking into a pit where they all screamed eternally, calling his name and grasping for him, seeking release and salvation while he could do nothing to help.

There was a rustling sound and John dropped into view, hobbling down from the tabletop, mindful of his leg. “Hey…” he said in a soft voice. “Where’d you go to?”

Danse’s blank gaze rose slightly. John’s eyes were sincere, albeit a little glassy from the Hydra and blood loss. He found that he couldn’t talk. Distress had paralyzed both his tongue and his body. John. Oh, John. Not a solider, not a volunteer. He had never signed up for danger; he was only with Danse because he cared for him. Getting John killed, or failing to prevent his death, would open a wound in Danse that could never heal. He found himself gasping, lightheaded. His heartbeat pounded deafeningly in his ears while his skin flushed and crawled.

“Dan… I don’t know how to help you.” John voice sounded very away, a wrenching concern punctuating the words. He was dimly aware of John touching his hands. “Tell me what to do.”

Moving only a fraction, Danse leaned towards him. John took the hint and wrapped his arms around him, letting Danse bury his face in his blond hair. Like a wave smashing against a rock, resolve burst in Danse’s chest and his arms rose to circle John’s shoulders, clinging to him for dear life as tremors of guilt and tears rolled through him. John said nothing until the episode had passed. When they drew apart, John paused to try and smooth the lines in Danse’s forehead with his thumbs, hands lingering to cup his face before dropping. Danse blew a shaky breath as they stood, John slightly favoring his leg.

Danse opened his mouth to apologize, regretting that John had to see him at anything less than his best, when something heavy crashed from the nearby hallway. Their eyes met in sudden understanding that their respite was over. Danse darted to retrieve his rifle. “Are you able to run?” he asked John.

“Able or not, I can and will.” Although pale, John looked determined and furious, a savage light filling his eyes that was both frightening and striking. It dawned on Danse he had been wrong. John wasn’t some foolish Wastelander in need of a savior. He was a fighter and, as he drew a wicked-looking knife from one of his bracers, braced himself for a brutal assault he would clearly meet with pleasure. He was glorious and deadly, chaotic fire flickering to life behind his eyes. Danse loved him even more for it and, more importantly, felt burgeoning respect blossom. A pang of uncertainty played with Danse’s decision to deny a life with John by his side. Alas, he couldn’t see any reality in which that opportunity could come to pass.

Danse took the lead, heading out the rear door. John grabbed his arm. “Hey, wait. Can I ask you something?”

He stopped and looked into John’s sharp eyes, ready in that moment to grant him whatever that he requested. “Anything.”

Grimacing, John asked, “Can we steer clear of Delaware from now on? It’s left a bad taste in my mouth.”

Gulping pride, Danse nodded, feeling a loss he couldn’t quite explain. He bought his rifle up and squeezed the grip too tight. With luck, he’d sooth his turbulent emotions with bloodshed.


	13. Just John

PIPER

Essex County, MA

April 15th, 2288

The inky blackness of a countryside night pressed in on she and John as they traveled north up a crumbling roadway. Nothing lit the ruined road but starlight and, even then, clouds where mounting to blot out what little illumination there was. To the west, an advancement of sickly olive vapor was visible, sweeping in from the Glowing Sea. The crisp freshness of a spring evening was being swiftly replaced with static energy that made her hair prickle.

“Radstorm rolling in,” she commented. John didn’t answer, but she hadn’t expected him to. Their journey had begun with her digging as hard as she could, brushing against one sore spot after another to glean information from him. Button-pushing usually got folks to crack wide open for her. With John, it only resulted in him stewing in heated silence, granting her an occasional one-word response.

Piper frowned, trying to judge the storm’s distance. She dug into her pockets and produced a few prophylactic tablets of Rad-X, wincing as she swallowed them dry. Heedless of her pause, John trudged up the road in front of her, the tattered tails of his coat swishing from side to side. His fierce stride set a hurried pace that she rushed to match. Perhaps he walked just a little faster for the effect of keeping his back to her.

Their trip had been strained and largely silent, him giving brief, biting answers to her questions regarding the dilemma in Goodneighbor, making it a point to remind Piper that she knew almost nothing about ghouls and, yeah, he had a point. This was going to be a tough article to write. Having never penned a story about ghoul matters, she was collecting the history of an entire race one query at a time. It was frustrating that John was so short with her. He could be the key to starting a circulation of papers in Goodneighbor and elsewhere, boosting the paltry amount of sales brought in by _Publick Occurrences_. Sure, she could relocate to Sanctuary, but everything that went on there – the people, the missions – were so hush-hush that she worried about tipping the delicate balance that Blue had secured for the Commonwealth. Her career would die on the vine, leaving little good she could personally accomplish.

As they continued, heading for what was sure to be a charming place called the Slog, Piper filled the quiet with another question. “You still taking Curie’s remedy?”

John balked and threw an irritated glance over his shoulder. His golden eyes hardened in the craters of his sunken sockets. “No, I love gambling with my sanity. Been taking bets on when I’m gonna lose it. Course, I won’t be around to collect, but why should that stop other peoples’ fun?”

“I’m serious.”

“Sheesh. Of course, I’m takin’ it. Lay off.” He swerved away, maintaining his pace but at a distance. They walked on in silence.

She’d had to ask. The only feral-slip she’d witnessed had been the time at the river in Sanctuary. She could only assume that there had been more. John had certainly made himself scarce enough so that he could be transitioning in all kinds of ways without anyone noticing. Piper had no idea what he did while out of sight in Goodneighbor. Well, she figured, apparently what he’d been doing was _Danse_. She switched tactics to keep him talking. “How’d you get such a soft spot for ghouls? It sure wasn’t from living in Diamond City.”

“Ain’t from Diamond City originally. You know that.” They both hopped over a glowing puddle questionable origin. “‘Sides, I’ve always been partial to ghouls over smoothskins.”

Piper raised a brow. “Even when you were one?”

The tricorn bobbed in affirmation. “Yup. Ghouls wear their ugliness on the outside. Makes ‘em more honest as they don’t gotta worry about impressing anyone. Folks are more tolerant of human assholes, whereas a ghoul with a bad attitude is just gonna get shot.”

“But you fell for a human.” She chortled as wind picked up to tug at her hair. “Never would have thought your type was Brotherhood soldiers.”

“ _Soldier_ ,” he corrected, looking back over his shoulder. “One.”

She narrowed her eyes. “But the name you gave –”

“Yeah, I know the name I gave.” He looked back at the road. “Wasn’t about to give Dan up to the press and have his life get fucked too, no matter how bad things were. They wanted a name, so I gave them one.”

Piper peered down at her shoes, mind churning as the road passed by underfoot. _Christ_. Had everything that she’d ever written about John McDonough been wrong? She pursed his lips before speaking. “Still – back on topic. Danse is human, not a ghoul. Well… I mean… _now_ we know he’s a synth,” Piper added, tripping over her words. “But back then, you didn’t know. Neither of you did.”

John’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “Didn’t set out to find him. Didn’t pick him. He just kinda happened to me.”

During that conversational dead end, a large concrete building loomed into view, complete with towering smokestacks and loops of wide piping. Firelight danced along the walls, separating the structure from the darkness of the road and the surrounding turf. That had to be Saugus, which meant that their destination would be coming up soon. Piper turned her head. Angry green clouds were roiling, creeping towards them. She pushed herself to keep pace with John. He stared straight ahead, paying her no mind.

“Pickman still doing his part to clean up the District?” she asked, digging a bit deeper. Blue had left the Financial District’s resident boogeyman alive, letting him clean the streets on his own terms. Seeing that Pickman had originally been John’s problem seemed like good enough fodder for a response. And she certainly got one.

Skidding to a halt, John spun to face her and shouted, “Jesus fuck, Piper! You just keep pushing! Why you gotta bring up Pickman?”

She stopped, glancing around to ensure that his outburst hadn’t gained the attention of anyone from Saugus. Nothing moved. Returning John’s glare, she spouted in a low voice, “You’re giving me nothing to go on. You run one of the largest towns in the Commonwealth and it’s like you don’t even care about it. A serial killer’s doing more to protect the area than you are. Are gunfights and overdoses just part of the Goodneighbor charm that I seem to be immune to? What’s the body count at when you wake up each morning?” She snorted. “ _Goodneighbor_. It used to be _Shitneighbor_. Now it’s just _Negligentneighbor_.”

“Because I’m a crap mayor?” His narrow shoulders heaved up and down as his gold eyes glittered dangerously. “Say it – my town is fucked up because of me! Enough people keep implying it!” He jabbed a finger at her and plunged ahead with giving her the chance to counter. “Now, let’s get one thing straight – insult me all you want. Hell, I can take it. Probably deserve it. But you don’t say one damn thing about my town. Got it?” He whirled and marched up the trail several steps ahead of her, shoulders hunched forward.

Piper let him sulk. She didn’t regret her words, not in the slightest. As far as successful settlements went, Goodneighbor was near the bottom of the heap. Sure, John had a fruitful enterprise of commerce and traffic, but that was all in chem trade and gun sales. If McDonough eventually made good on his promise to kick her out of Diamond City, she’d be scared shitless to take Nat to Goodneighbor, as she half-feared for her own life every time she visited. Maybe she was missing the benefit of handing such a secure location over to the degenerates of society and letting them run rampant. As she recalled from his Diamond City days, John was a better businessman than this, and all her abrupt commentary came from a place of legit confusion. Then again, perhaps she was making an unwise assumption in presuming that both John McDonough and John Hancock were the same person.

The storm settled over them just as they reached the end of their journey. Cloud cover wove a heavy blanket overhead, its belly tinged with green, and the deep bass of thunder grew closer. A choking mist hugged the air and made it difficult to see further than a few feet ahead. The Slog turned out to be an unassuming little farming community. Rusted chain-link fencing wrapped around the complex, which appeared to have been a civic center at some point before the war **.** The lights coming up from a half-filled swimming pool might have been pretty had the sky not been clogged with an irradiated haze that gave the settlement a sickly glow.

“Hey there, Slog!” John called out in a clear, optimistic voice, wandering onto the vast concrete patio lit by a few bare bulbs on the exterior. “Goodneighbor here.” The sulk switched off, and his posture shifted as he manifested into his leader role.

“Hello, Goodneighbor!” someone responded, their words contending with a growl of thunder.

Taking the initiative, Piper made for the civic building to take cover from the radstorm. As she backed into the shelter of the doorway, she watched several ghouls emerge from the moss-tinted fog, rising out of the in-ground swimming pool and shuffling in from the fields looking like, well, zombies from a spooky horror film.

John stood with his back straight, ready to greet The Slog’s occupants, the politician in him prepared to bargain for his town. A male ghoul led the rest, gesturing to the others in an ‘it’s all right’ kind of way. The strange ghoul was tall, and paler than the others. John must have recognized him in a distressing way since the polite grin that he wore was swiftly melting away. “Hell…” he whispered, the bravado on his face sliding into wide-eyed disbelief. “Wiseman.”

“Wiseman?” she repeated, aghast, her gaze swinging between the two of them. How the hell John could tell one ghoul from another was beyond her knowledge. “ _Derek Wiseman_? From Diamond City?” Of course she should have expected that Wiseman would set up a hamlet of his own. Out of all the ghouls in the entire Commonwealth, he had once received the greatest respect. Back in Diamond City, he was both brave and charismatic enough to go toe-to-toe with Guy McDonough and walk away unscathed.

“Sorry,” said Wiseman, frowning as he came to a stop before John. He cocked his bald head at John’s crazy ensemble. “Do I know you?”

“You took my life away,” John stated, his hands balling into fists at his sides. Anger further distorted the lines on his face.

Maybe it was just a ruse from the encroaching storm, but Piper felt a palpable tension mounting in the air. A stiffening sense of danger was present, something larger than two bickering ghouls. She brushed fingers over her pistol.

Tilting his head slightly, Wiseman’s eyes raked up and down John’s body, gaze settling on the flag he wore. “Ho-ly shit. _John_? What the hell happened to you?”

“Reached the end of my rope,” was the simplified answer John gave, his eyes narrowed. Flashes of forked cyan lightning flickered across the sky.

The remaining ghouls had arrived, forming a half-circle behind Wiseman. “Goodneighbor…,” Wiseman said, musing to himself. “I understand now. I heard rumors of some smoothskin going ghoul too quick to suffer properly. Then, the place gave him a title. That was you.” He crossed his arms over his chest. The short sleeves of a once-white shirt were tight around his farm-sowed biceps. “What is it that you’re calling yourself these days? _Hoover? Hamilton_?”

“… _Hancock_ ,” John answered in a small voice, as if his poise was draining.

Catching sight of Piper, Wiseman swung his head in her direction. “And Piper. Still chasing this one for a story?”

“Maybe.” Her answer was guarded. Talking with Wiseman stirred up old, uneasy feelings. “There are a lot of people that could use the medicine you have. If I get an article out of it, that’s a bonus.”

The grimace Wiseman gave her stung. “ _People._ It’s nice to know that you’re calling our kind by better names these days. Sure that this isn’t an attempt to redeem yourself for screwing us over?” he questioned, his workers gathers around him, their eyes, black or deathly-white, staring straight at her.

It occurred to Piper that it would be very easy for a gaggle of angry ghouls to fall upon her, and that their vengeance might not be completely unfounded.

Intervening, John took a step closer and spouted, “Don’t make this about her. I got a town full of folks that need help. Ghouls. Just the same as you and me.”

Wiseman gave him a worn glance. “Well… that’s a lie, isn’t it?” he said. John bristled. “You’re nothing like me. And nothing like the rest of us. You don’t deserve to wear a ghoul’s face. You didn’t earn it. Didn’t suffer for it. Didn’t endure the centuries of persecution and terror. What – you thought it would be fun? Thought you’d get a nice high out of being shot at for kicks and turned away wherever you went?”

Aclap of thunder shook the building that Piper huddled under.“You better not presume to know me, brother,” John said in a surly voice. “You didn’t then and you sure as hell don’t now.”

 **“** I suppose that we can agree on that. You always were very good at keeping secrets.” Wiseman’s demeanor calmed, although his voice lost none of its edge. “So, your town’s in trouble. Did you stop to think that a plague might be a tactical ploy on behalf of your dear brother? Wiping out a ghoul refuge… isn’t that right up his alley? Although, you _did_ give him everything he ever wanted. Suppose that ought to earn you some leeway.”

Several fingers of lightning touched down too close for comfort. Piper could smell the burnt vegetation left in their wake. The gathering of ghouls glanced about nervously, but John and Wiseman were locked in their own world.

John shook his head, expression dark and strained. “You turned Diamond City into your own game of chess, every one of us a different piece. You just played me badly.”

Resolvedly sighing, Wiseman said, “You used to be a formidable ally. Now, you’re just pathetic. All ghouls know about Goodneighbor. Degenerates, right? Those are the types of people you serve? Murders and drug dealers? You used to talk a good game about the future. You inspired me, inspired a lot of people. Looks like you jettisoned the plan in favor of old habits. How goddamned disappointing.”

John’s fists were so tight that his mottled knuckles had lost their color. He closed his eyes, looking uncannily like a gaunt, rapid ghoul about to slip. The clash of the storm halted, suddenly quiet, as if The Slog hung in the eye of a hurricane. All of Piper’s hairs stood straight up, making her flesh crawl. Clouds churned above, knotting tighter, the sky a glimmering absinthe shade.

When John’s eyes opened, his irises burned gold, a brightness that gleamed against the night. He swept back his coat and kneeled, fingertips finding cracks of bare earth between the squares of concrete. A faint hissing sound drew attention, and Piper caught sight of The Slog’s crops withering, crumbling into dust. The water in the pool steamed, bubbling and sloshing before progressing into a full roiling boil.

The storm above threw itself back into action with a great boom of thunder that rocked The Slog. Forks of lightning crashed violently to the ground, touching down on the concrete poolside, setting trees ablaze and sending ghouls screaming, diving for cover. Piper retreated a few steps further into the building. Every source of light or power housed at the farm began to hum, the sound growing in intensity, each bulb filling with a blinding jade glow. The lights popped, showers of emerald sparks spraying from anything electrical. Piper ducked as the overhead bulbs shattered and bathed her in glass fragments.

The entire farm was engulfed within a brilliant green flash. Bathed that ethereal green light, John stood, his eyes vacant of expression, coattails flapping a swirling breeze that scattered cropdust and glass shards. His turned his palms to the sky.

Fat jade raindrops started falling with such force that they bounced up off the patio. One leapt up to burn Piper’s cheek. Beads of glass tumbled from the brim of her cap as she jumped, clapping a head to the wound. Radrain. She’d thought it a myth. As her skin prickled, Piper felt a wave of nausea pass over her. She was going to vomit, and if this didn’t stop soon her organs would fail and she would die. It wasn’t clear if John was influencing the storm or vice versa, but the two were explicitly linked. “John!” she yelled over the roar of radrainfall. “John, stop! You have to stop this!” With shaking hands, she drew her pistol and fired a single shot into the air.

At the sound of the weapon’s discharge, John’s soul burst back into his body and he reeled back, gasping. His hands fell to his sides. Just as abruptly, it was over, cloud cover thinning as the thunder subsided. With the lights destroyed, the only source of illumination came from the crawling green mist. Several of the faming ghouls scrambled to quell the burning tree line. Wiseman cautiously approached John with an astonished stare. “How… how did you do this?” he breathed, low reverence in his voice.

John didn’t answer. He slumped forward, as if suddenly exhausted. The brightness in his gold eyes was fading. “Freak!” one of the ghouls called out from the garden plot. “Someone ought to put you down before you kill someone!” Fat, glowing green tears rolled down John’s withered cheeks, weaving down the creases to drip from his chin.

As her stomach churned, Piper didn’t know what to think. She never thought she’d witness ghouls turning on one of their own. Maybe John was just too different, neither here nor there. Not a long-suffering, world-weary ghoul or a human benefactor prepared to take join the fight. It seemed no wonder the John had wanted to die after the election of ‘82. No option had been left for him. Piper had made sure of that. Guilt mixed with the nausea and she fell to her knees, retching.

When her stomach was empty but still queasy, she looked up to see Wiseman standing by John. The storm was dissipating, and they were clad mostly in shadow. In a voice softer than before, Wiseman said, “You know, right? You know what you’ll be?” John gave him a hard glance. “You did this to yourself,” Wiseman reminded. “This wasn’t me.”

“I think it’d be awesome if we never see each other again,” John choked out, ignoring the tears he was shedding.

Wiseman stilled, staring for a while before he spoke. “Whatever disagreements you and I have, I won’t hold them against your town. Arlen?” he called, looking past John **.** An older ghoul poked his head out of a small shack adjoined to the civic building, looking quite relieved to have been inside for much of the previous scene. “Get those packs of fever blossoms ready. Our people need help.” Wiseman then tuned and joined the rest of the ghouls in caring for the damaged brush.

Piper gagged again, bringing up nothing more than bile. Footsteps crunched on the shattered shards of glass surrounding her. Looking up, she saw John standing over her, using a cuff to dab at his cheeks. “Take some meds, sister,” he said, avoiding eye contact. “That was a lot of rads.”

Piper blinked at him before fumbling through her pockets for her emergency dose of RadAway. John assisted her with the needle before joining Arlen with readying supplies. She felt better by the time the last drop of the drug disappeared into her system. Once she was good to go, John greeted her with bag stuffed full of flowers, their stunning, bright blue color seeping out through the worn zipper’s teeth. An identical bag was slung over his own shoulder.

They made a hasty retreat from The Slog, neither speaking for a better part of an hour. Piper made the careful decision to remain several steps away from him, her hand drifting over her pistol as she wrestled with making sense out of what she had happened. They outpaced the departing storm and after a few miles starlight finally broke through the clouds. Meandering down the devastated highway, Piper repeatedly peeked at John as he walked with his head down. He seemed almost ashamed.

“So, hey. That was pretty weird, right? At The Slog?” she probed lightly, fishing for information. “Do things like that happen often?”

“Not exactly like that,” he answered, sounding tied and beaten. “But sometimes, yeah.”

“Should we, um, tell Blue?” she carefully asked, taking a wide step over a rusted fender. “Or Danse? I mean, does he know about this stuff?”

“Dan knows. He knows all of it.” He gave a disgusted-sounding grunt, gaze still tracking asphalt. “He’s the one that holds me down when everything goes black and I just… go away. I kick and claw at him, can hear my screams blend into growls. He keeps me from hurting anyone else. Sometimes, its minutes. Sometimes, hours.”

Stunned, Piper asked, “And Danse… he deals with that?”

“Course he deals with it. He’s good with responsibility.” John shifted his bag to the opposite shoulder and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “After Far Harbor, he steered clear of Sanctuary for his reasons and I did the same for mine. S’why the State House is cleared out. Making a claim for privacy seemed a hell of a lot easier than telling anyone the truth.” He stared into the pack, and then offered one to Piper.

“Which is?” she asked, accepting the cigarette.

He lit up and took a deep drag before responding, “I’m a liability.”

That was the end of their conversation, both spending the reminder of their journey preoccupied with their own thoughts.

They arrived back in Goodneighbor by daybreak. Numerous residents, John included, got to work breaking the flowers down at various chem stations to extract ingredients that could combat the rampant illness gripping the town. Piper wandered to and fro, taking notes and gathering stats. When asked to assist, she gladly put her pen down and did so, administering treatments and helping to haul the dead away for offsite incineration. Doing a little active good here and there boosted her flagging self-esteem, participating in the world around her instead of just chronicling events.  

It was an exhausting day. Piper made it all the way until the afternoon, when she threw herself down on a mattress at Rexford and slept hard for several hours. When she woke, she ventured outside and found that she had just missed the sun dipping over the walls. It was as if Goodneighbor had revived itself. A few more ghouls filled the evening streets and the atmosphere had changed. People were laughing, and she could hear the tinkle of caps being dumped for the purchase of trade or gambling. Kent tipped his hat at her as she passed him by. “Hey, you,” she greeted with a weary smile. “Spot your fearless leader anywhere?” Finding John meant that she could get his closing statement, wrap up her visit and go home.

“Headed up to the State House earlier, Ms. Wright. Hey –” he took her hand “ – I just wanna thank you for helpin’ us. Not many Diamond City folks willin’ to go the distance for a bunch of ghouls, ya know?”

His praise made Piper feel squeamish. Sure, she had accompanied John to pick up the cure, but she hadn’t gone with the intention of rescuing ghouls. Still learning about how to share the Commonwealth with ghouls and synths, she didn’t really deserve the admiration in Kent’s dark eyes. She forced a grin and twisted her hand gently to make him release her. “Hey, uh, thanks. Any time.”

She found the State House eerily quiet. Back in the day, watchmen were always muttering about this or that, gossiping or giving a stern warning. With them gone, the place seemed like any other old building in the Wastes, albeit with fewer holes in the floor. She poked her head into every room, searching for John. No one was in his residence or the offices. She spun around a few times, looking for some place that she had overlooked. Pausing, she glanced down the winding staircase, noting the basement.

After trotting down the steps, Piper found John in the subterranean level of the State House, dressing a mannequin in his costume. He was clothed in leathers, his flag looped around his middle. The tricorn still perched atop his head.

“It’s been a day,” she hailed.

“Yeah,” he haggardly agreed. “It’s been a day.”

He had a resigned sort of calm about him that Piper found completely unnerving. Had she found him with a beer in one hand and a canister of chems in the other, she might have been more at ease. She thought that she knew what to expect from the likes of him. Now, she wasn’t certain that she knew anything at all about him, either as Hancock or as John McDonough. “Whatcha doin’ there?” she asked, her insatiable curiously and bluntness overcoming common sense.

“You know,” John mused slowly, “there ain’t no post-apocalyptic mayoral handbook. I did the best I could.” He frowned at the mannequin. “Shoulda been me playing the part of the Shroud, not Nate. Shoulda helped Daisy with the library. Shoulda dealt with Pickman myself.” He sighed, gaze dropping to the dusty floor. “Seems like I ain’t in the right position. If enough people tell me that, it’s gotta be true, right?”

Giving him a slight smile, she quipped, “But you’re Hancock, the savior of Goodneighbor.”

He huffed and removed his hat. “Don’t call me that. That ain’t who I am anymore. I’m just John.” Gently, he set the tricorn atop the mannequin’s head, completing the ensemble. She watched him closely as he shook out a piece of red cloth and tied it around his bald head. It seemed as if whatever resolution he had decided on was fixed. She wasn’t sure of what his life was leading to and she was pretty certain that he didn’t know either. The prospect of losing himself, especially now with Danse back in the picture, must be particularly terrifying and absolutely unfair.

At some point during her tiresome day, something had clicked in her mind and she had been able to place the almost magical ability that John had utilized when calling down the lightning. He was capable of intense destruction on a scale she could barely comprehend. Piper didn’t know much about the hierarchy of ferals, but she could imagine that John would rank pretty highly. “When you turn,” she began, broaching the subject as lightly as she could. “You’re not gonna be one of those slow, rotten ones, are you?” John glanced at her, mute. “You’re gonna glow,” she affirmed.  

John’s mouth tightened, his brow ridge knotting. He brought a fist up between them. As he opened his hand, the room filled with the same luminous green glow as had encased The Slog. Piper jolted backwards, fearing the spill of radioactivity. “It’s okay,” John claimed. “I can control it.”

The glare dimmed slightly, and she could see clearly again. A ball of chartreuse energy was nestled within John’s palm. The green gleam bathed one side of his face, making the fissures on it appear even more cavernous. “I’m gonna tell you some things about me,” he said, as the ball of light pulsed. “They’re gonna sound freaky and impossible but I wanna leave a record. And I need to ask a favor. Don’t print anything ‘til I’m gone, okay? I don’t want folks to shun me while I’m still kicking.”

She spent the rest of that day writing his story down, starting with his feral turn in Sanctuary all the way to the present. When they concluded, the two of them retreated to the State House balcony for some fresh air and stale cigarettes. The town was bustling by that point. Still not up to its old standards, but more people littered the streets and the sounds of a working community rose to their ears. The string lights gave twilight a slightly festive feel.

John watched the activity, rapping his rings against the chipped wooden railing as a faint smile took hold. “Hey, Piper,” he chirped. “What do you call a cool ghoul?”

She sighed and took a drag on her smoke. “Dunno. What?” she asked in a droll manner.  

“Rad!” His mouth hung wide open, waiting for her response.

She socked him in the arm. “Ugh. Idiot.” He grinned at her, still incorrigible, as she shook her head.  

“Hey, boss,” Fahrenheit’s voice drifted up from the street. They peered down at her, finding a pair of drifters by her side. “You’re never ever going to believe what went down at Bunker Hill today,” she stated, hands on her hips.


	14. Cavalry

MACCREADY

Charlestown, MA

April 16th, 2288

The siren in Sanctuary’s main square had sounded at the break of dawn. Its keening roused everyone, including MacCready in his water tower nest. The message from Bunker Hill had been brief. _Hostiles converging nearby. Fearing imminent threat. Help defend._ With most of the community’s personnel off doing who-knew-what, pickings had been slim to build a team that could offer Bunker Hill any support. Both Sturges and Codsworth were left to keep an eye on Sanctuary while Preston marched MacCready, Cait and Dogmeat off into battle. These types of requests usually entailed putting down a gaggle of ferals or three wayward mutants. After, MacCready could probably shake down a few of the residents for a fat stack of thank-you-caps. No biggie. They’d be home by sundown.

A fading radstorm churned by overhead, weak wisps of greenish clouds returning to the Glowing Sea. They followed the road in a little line, Preston at the lead, the enormity of his laser musket at the ready. Behind him, Cait tossed a bat wrapped in wicked-looking barbed wire from hand to hand, a machete swinging at her hip. Happily oblivious to any danger, Dogmeat scampered around the two of them in a circle as they walked. Picking up the rear, and falling slightly behind, was MacCready, trying to give both humans a wide berth.

Cait had been intolerable since Vault 95, picking verbal fights instead of physical ones and being generally unpleasant. As a childish solution to this problem, MacCready was actively avoiding her. With an absolutely selfish thought, MacCready wished she had never gotten clean. If the Psycho was what kept her smiling, flirtatious, and happy, he preferred her on it.

As for Preston, MacCready found himself in an endless loop of trying to appease his requests while making every attempt at avoidance. The Minuteman kept requesting MacCready’s aid, seeking him out, knowing he was the best shot in the group, even beating out Danse for that title. Any weird request that came in for assistance with a ranged approach went straight to him. Mirelurks giving a settlement troubles? Sure. MacCready would wiggle up in a tree and make short work of the problem. Oh, no – a quarry full of raiders? Lemme hang out on this ledge and make some heads spurt. When paired with Nate, the vaultie would rush in, drawing attention in his ridiculous blue and yellow suit while MacCready picked off whatever was dumb enough to stick its head out. That much, he was prepared for.

But this life kinda blew. He’d signed up for a standard contract of assisting Nate, not getting caught up in a revolution where anybody with a title could give him orders. He didn’t have to accept all requests, but it was hard to judge where Nate’s influence ended and someone else’s began. The guy was so deeply entangled in everybody’s business that, should an appeal roll down from the Enclave, MacCready couldn’t be certain that Nate wasn’t responsible for it and that he wouldn’t be contracted to oblige. This _yes, sir, right away, sir_ reality felt way too similar to his time with the Gunners.

MacCready always suspected that he would be a lackluster solider, and time and again, it had been proven. He hadn’t fit right with the Gunners and sure as rain didn’t fit in with Nate’s eccentric group of protagonists. He was in it for the caps and to hell with valor, involving himself in heists and situations he prayed that his son would never hear about. Mid-stride, MacCready stubbed his toe and almost tripped.

 _His son._ _Dammit **.**_ It was far less painful to forget about him, to have all-consuming lengths of time when all he did was work, providing for Duncan even if though couldn’t be present. But what kind of life could he have with Duncan clinging to his ankles? A merchant, getting ripped-off and robbed every few days? A repairman? Yeah, sure – he’d definitely be happy with that. Wrong.

“Keep up, boy-o,” Cait grumbled, giving him a half-glance. “Yer laggin’ behind.”

“You alright back there, MacCready?” Preston called, walking backwards for a moment, laser musket swaying with each step. “Not like you to be so quiet.”

“Yeah, well,” MacCready said, “I’d rather shut up and save the bullet holes for later. Not really down for a pre-tango with raiders or muties.”  

Preston nodded. “Fair enough. That’s a good plan,” he said, turning to face forward. They all moved on silently, though Cait threw a scowl at MacCready every so often. What he’d done to deserve such contempt, he had no idea.

With the duffle bag over his shoulder packed full of ammo boxes and everything he cared about, MacCready had an inkling he wouldn’t be returning to Sanctuary. That brief period when things seemed to be working out for him had expired. Nothing remained for him in the Commonwealth besides a misplaced sense of responsibility towards Nate, despite having long since refunded the caps used to hire him. Whatever he had with Cait seemed to be dead and gone and, heck, he missed his son badly. The boy had been a toddler when MacCready left him behind in Big Town. He couldn’t even guess what Duncan looked like at four years old. Irony was that MacCready had left to ensure a safe home for Duncan, abandoning him at the same time. He almost snorted in sardonic laughter as he trudged through Charlestown staring at his comrades’ backs.

And Nate… crap. Nate might never find his son. And here MacCready was, knowing full well where Duncan lived and opting to remain separated. Everything he’d set out to do was for Duncan, and then it all had gotten so muddled **.** _Fudge it,_ MacCready decided. _Nate’s never around, anyways_. _I don’t owe him anymore. I don’t owe anyone._

It was time to say goodbye to the Commonwealth. Bunker Hill was almost to Goodneighbor. He could grab one last job from Daisy, escorting one of her caravans all the way back to the Capital Wasteland. After that, he’d grab Duncan and hightail it off to somewhere – anywhere – else. Someplace that the Brotherhood hadn’t gutted and left for dead. _Done_ , he nodded to himself. He’d do just that. And better to make a break for it while Nate wasn’t around to guilt him into staying just a little longer, just until that fragile glimpse of freedom – and beloved capitalism – was close enough to touch.

Bright blue skies and calm winds filled the sky and the surface of the Charles River gleamed, pinpricks of white light dancing atop tiny ripples. On the other side of the river, a camp full of raiders congregated, leather-clad ants patrolling a roof-top holdout beyond firing distance, blocking the entrance to the North End.

There’d been no sign of the Railroad. Radio silence had followed MacCready’s plea to Deacon. Any request for updates had been answered with frustrating static. At this point, they’d either managed to retrieve Curie or they hadn’t. If not, well, MacCready didn’t want to think about that. Synth or not, she was a nice lady that didn’t deserve to die. He made a deep harrumph in his chest. Heck, he’d been wrong about everything else he thought he knew – why not add unjust prejudice about synths to the list? If Danse ever darkened his doorway again, he might just be able to muster up an apology to the guy.

Speaking of, there was a notable Brotherhood presence in Charlestown, one that seemed to be getting thicker the closer they got to Bunker Hill. Trios of soldiers were stationed here and there patrolling the streets, some with guard dogs, some on the move, stomping in their armor as they followed the same route that Preston followed. The four of them were ignored, bucket heads never swiveling in their direction, not that their inaction eased MacCready’s growing anxiety any. Vertibird propellers rumbled off in the distance, their bodies obscured by tall buildings. A few barricades had been erected here and there, but the gates remained sealed. Seemed like the Brotherhood had gotten a keep-the-hell out notice from Bunker Hill.

Preston hailed a lookout and the junkyard entry opened just enough for their group to squeeze through before creaking closed behind them. Minutemen flags were flying in Bunker Hill when they arrived, proudly displaying the peoples’ affiliation. The crumbling monument stretched tall, its steeple spearing the belly of the sky as it cast its long shadow over the adjacent lodge. Although MacCready had only been there twice, it seemed that the town was overcrowded. In the shade of high granite walls, anonymous heavies were assembling all over the marketplace, hard-eyed men and women in reinforced coats that slunk through the shadows, avoiding eye contact and carting heavy weaponry.

“What’s, uh, goin’ on here?” MacCready drawled, eyes drinking the busy community up. Between the Brotherhood forces and these guys, it looked like something big was about to go down. A ridge of fur stood straight up along Dogmeat’s spine.

“Looks like we found the Railroad,” said Preston.

Nate had dragged MacCready to the Railroad’s not-so-super-secret lair a time or two and, sure enough, MacCready spotted a familiar-looking agent named – what was it? Glamor? Glinda? – striding around the corner of a vendor’s stall, her short white hair drawing attention. He took a few steps in her direction, but when he rounded the partition she had vanished completely, leaving him stumped. Come to think of it, most of the other heavy hitters had also disappeared. He knew better than to even _try_ and spot Deacon. He wondered if the Brotherhood’s presence had triggered the assemblage of Railroad agents or if it was the other way around.

“Looks like this place is about to get one hell of a showdown,” Cait muttered as Preston steered them out of the market into Bunker Hill’s farming area.

A middle-aged woman in a patched suit was barking commands as two men strung chains over a rear entryway. “And when you’re done, secure the front gate. Send a runner to hold the caravans at a safe location until this is all sorted out. Reinforcements should be on the way.”

“That’d be us, Kessler,” Preston announced, causing the woman to swing around to face him. “We’re here to help.”

Her eyes dragged over the lot of them, seeing a skinny kid in a too-large duster, an irate woman swinging a bat, an anxious dog, and a lone Minuteman. “Some cavalry,” she said curtly, mouth turning down, disappointment sagging her shoulders. “The General said that we had nothing to worry about. I’m worried.”

“Dirty Mungo,” MacCready mumbled under his breath.

“What?” Kessler bit, sending a disgusted glance at him.

“What?” he repeated as if he hadn’t heard, giving his best attempt to appear innocent. The sharp sound of chains being dragged over concrete grated in his ears. A vendor knocked into him, her arms full of wares to be squirrelled away and secured. He blew an annoyed sigh from one side of his mouth.

“The General managed to reach out to you?” Preston clarified, shifting his laser musket from one shoulder to the other. “What did he say about the nature of the threat?”

“He didn’t,” Kessler answered, looking upset at that fact. “Warned us to go to brace ourselves, though.” She gave a nod towards the chained door. “Don’t think that I haven’t noticed the activity around here. Not sure what the Brotherhood is hoping to find, but I’m not about to open my doors to them.”

“And the Railroad?” MacCready asked, dropping his weighty duffle off his shoulder. “You pin any of them down for an answer?”

“The Railroad? What are you talking about?” Something in Kessler’s eyes shifted, fear blotting out irritation before switching back again. “Why would the Railroad be here?”

“Seriously?” MacCready’s brows shot upwards. “You’re gonna try and tell me you didn’t see them? That fleet of heavies disappearing like ninjas? They’re good, but they aren’t that good.”

“Kessler, answer me honestly,” Preston began in a low, soothing voice. “What do you have here that both the Brotherhood and the Railroad would want?”

She shifted nervously, forehead creasing as she struggled to elucidate. Sliding closer, she whispered, “I’m not at liberty to say, Colonel. But please… if this gets ugly… _when_ this gets ugly, keep hostiles out of the marketplace. There’s more at stake here then you know.”

“Well, hell. _Obviously_ that’s the case,” Cait grumbled, jammed a fist against one hip. “If you want us bleedin’ and dyin’ for ya, you better give us somethin’ better to go on.”

Kessler swallowed. She cast a few quick glances either way. A few citizens hurried about, readying weapons and closing down stalls. The men who had rigged the chain had moved on to the main gate. They were alone as they could be. “Synths,” she answered at barely more than a whisper. “We hold escaped and rescued synths in the basement. If the Brotherhood gets in, they’ll take them. They’ll kill them outright or experiment on them. Please, you can’t let that happen.”

Cait’s arms hung loose and air rushed from MacCready’s chest. _Synths. Of all the things to risk their lives for._ “The Brotherhood?” MacCready repeated slowly, as if Kessler was daft. “You… want us to fight the _Brotherhood of Steel_ over a bunch of synths?”

Only Preston seemed unperturbed. He gave Kessler an easy smile. “The Minutemen stand up for everyone. Doesn’t much matter where they come from or what they’re running from. We’ve got this, Kessler. Make sure your people are safe.”

 _Jeez,_ MacCready thought, tugging the brim of his cap down. _Way to make me feel like a jerk._ Clearly, Preston was a better person than the rest of them.

Kessler faded away as she hustled her constituents into secure positions. The shacks and overhead gangways were nearly abandoned, the barrels of a few rifles visible over railings as residents crouched in wait. The steady thumping of propeller blades grew and fell in volume as a few vertibirds circled Bunker Hill, their fat bellies close enough to clip the monument should they veer off course. Dogmeat padding around in circles, sniffing about and sneezing, clearly amped.

“Something doesn’t line up,” Preston said, raising his voice to be heard over the droning of the ‘birds as they congregated under the enclosed market. He looked confused, an alarming expression from someone that was the leader of their little group. “I get that the Brotherhood has their own priorities but raiding a settlement for information and kidnapping suspected synths doesn’t seem like their style.”

“Pugh,” MacCready groused, hefting his duffle again. “Clearly, you’ve never been to the Capital. Brotherhood gutted that place. Everything that they didn’t claim got destroyed. S’why I took off – all decent cities where anyone could try and grab some under-the-table work had to answer to their rulings. That’s the Brotherhood I know. If they can’t control it, they destroy it.”

Wrinkling her nose in distaste, Cait mentioned, “Ain’t Nate with them walking garbage cans right now? That’s where he went off to, d’n’t he?”

Shaking his head, Preston blew a sigh out of his nose. “It just doesn’t add up. We’re missing something. And going up against Brotherhood firepower… that doesn’t make me happy. Or optimistic.”

MacCready couldn’t keep an expression of disgust from claiming his face. “The Minutemen going to war with the Brotherhood over a bunch of synths hanging out in a basement. Is that worth it?”

“Preventing an unnecessary loss of life and helping innocent people to live free?” Preston questioned. “That’s always worth it.” A beat passed, and then his posture abruptly changed, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. “Alright. To it, then. We’ll split up. Cait, you good to hold the market?”

“I’ll crack whoever’s heads get in me way.”

One of Preston’s brows lowered. “Well, I guess that’s… refreshing. I’ll hold the gate.”

“Where do you need me?” MacCready asked, ready to get this bloodbath over and done. If he had just a fraction of additional cowardice in his body, he would have considered slipping away before the bullets started to fly. Heck, maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea.

Preston gave him a slight smile and his gaze traveled upwards. “Exactly where you think.”

Lifting his head, MacCready stared straight up at the monument. His grin matched Preston’s. “Got it.” An elevated position too cramped for armored soldiers to get to. Maybe he’d survive this madness after all.

“Dogmeat!” Preston called. The shepherd pricked his ears and trotted over, tongue lolling. “With me, boy.” The colonel and the shepherd left the safety of the granite-lined market to take a position at the front gates, which had been shuttered and crisscrossed with both ropes and chain. Settlers evacuated the stalls and hustled to arm themselves.

It became all too clear to MacCready that he and Cait were alone in the square. She didn’t look at him, just gazed at the circling ‘birds with a bored expression. The tips of his ears burned slightly in awkward discomfort. “Well, uh… yeah,” he mumbled at her, clutching his duffle a little closer. “See you on the other side.” He turned and made for the stone doorway that led up the tower.

“RJ!” Cait snagged the back of his duster and hauled him backwards, making him stumble. She whipped him around and planted a violent kiss on his lips. It was… weird. There was no passion behind it and yet held a finality that spoke volumes. When she broke away, she said, “If we make it, we’re gonna be tradin’ some words after.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, a cold sensation creeping into his chest. “If we make it.” Turning his back on her, he began ascending the flight of stairs leading to the top of the obelisk, knowing that there was a slight chance that Cait would slip out during the rumpus, which would probably save her own life and spare him that conversation with her. He wasn’t sure if he preferred that possibility or not.

Within moments of climbing, he was winded, a stitch in his side causing him to pause and mutter, “I’m gonna get old and die climbing these stairs.” There usually wasn’t this much cardio involved in sniping. The walls seemed to spin around him as he climbed, swirls of pale granite flying by. Occasional gaps where the stone had crumbled away gave him glimpses of the world below, the only proof that he wasn’t trapped in a vortex of stone.

At long last, he reached the top, finding a chair and a small table beneath a sizable window. A breeze rolling in from the sea tugged at his cap, the slightly briny tang of ocean air filling his nostrils. Slinging his duffle down, he set up shop. He kicked the chair out of the way and stacked cases of ammunition on the rickety table, popping the boxes open for easy access. Readying his rifle, he slipped a round into the action and closed it.

He had a visual of not only the front entrance but the bridge leading all the way to Beacon Hill. Several squads of Brotherhood soldiers marched around the perimeter of Bunker Hill carrying hardcore arsenal. MacCready traced their units through his scope. He didn’t really want to shoot people that were kinda just doing their jobs, even if they were assho – idiots. Pissing the Brotherhood off could mean the end of the entire Commonwealth. In a terse moment, he wondered if it was too late to join Cait for the imaginary escape he had built up in his mind. That would be a shi – awful thing to do to Preston, leaving him alone to fight an entire legion. He supposed, worst case scenario, that the Castle could bomb the entire town into powder, putting an end to them all.

Stuffing cowardice to one side, he blew out a steadying breath, and settled to one knee, waiting to hear the rat-a-tat of gunfire accompanied by the pew-pew of laser fire. Minutes ticked by. It had been a while since he had seen any Railroad operatives. _Where had they disappeared to?_ The basement, likely. Brotherhood forces wouldn’t wait around forever. MacCready braced himself for the inescapable moment when the armored patrols would storm the gates, ready to drop them with headshots before they could even touch the woodwork.

That didn’t happen.

MacCready had only an instant to comprehend what was happening before it was too late. Static tingled all over his body seconds before the sky filled with channels of blue light so brilliant that he had to look away. Those forks of azure energy crashed to the ground with deafening booms. There was no frontal assault – it came from all sides, including above. Synths appeared out of nowhere, both inside and out of the Bunker Hill enclosure, riding in on fingers of blue lighting in droves. As each channel of sapphire light dissipated, clusters of early-model synths immediately opened fire. Gunfire exploded from every direction.  “Oh, shit!” slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it. Blue beams of light touched down all over the Bunker Hill piazza.

There had been no word about the Institute’s involvement.

MacCready thumbed the safety off, taking a preliminary shot at one skeletal-looking Gen-1. _Bang._ The spindly thing blew apart in a shower of metal and plastic. Long, frantic minutes became a cycle of drop target, pull the bolt back, eject casing, chamber a round, line up new shot, rinse, repeat. Robots with their Institute rifles were everywhere, turning foes into ash piles.

The Brotherhood finally sprang into action. They _did_ break the gate down, causing MacCready to momentarily wonder what happened to Preston’s defense, pushing through in pursuit of Institute forces before unloading a barrage of fire into the square. The salvo was too much for the settlement. Minigun rounds tore vast chunks out of the masonry while laser fire caused crops to go up in flames. Several Railroad agents flickered into view as their Stealth Boys died, firing enormous Gauss rifles at the armored Brotherhood units, laying into them until plating flaked off and the soldiers went down. The Brotherhood was swift to respond, tearing the agents to shreds while synths slid through the marketplace unhindered. _Dumb. Dumb dumb dumb._ Both sides had lost focus on their Institute opponents in favor of laying into one another.

MacCready downed one courser, easily recognizable in the crowd, before losing any specific targets in the throng. His job became futile as all three factions swarmed the city, the skirmish so packed full of combatants that it was difficult to pinpoint only synth targets without risking Brotherhood, Railroad or civilian casualties. Too many noncombatants were scattering throughout the area, fleeing the surprise synth invasion and the bombardment of gunfire. MacCready spotted a kid out there, darting between shacks as she searched for cover.

He lowered his rifle, the barrel dipping dishearteningly as he closed his eyes. A brief flashback to Quincy burst to life, of a firefight with a kid running around that ended badly. There was no such thing as a secure location, no place where a kid could grow up safe and happy without the threat of some group rolling in and blowing everything to Hell. He pictured the boy from Quincy, remembering the way he’d writhed on the ground, MacCready’s bullet in his leg. In this memory, the boy wore Duncan’s face.

The roar of vertibird ammunitions being fired shook him from his trance. He opened his eyes to see the airborne forces bob in the sky, front-mounted lasers sending concentrated destruction at the streets lining Bunker Hill’s barricades. A few scant figures darted through the roadways. Ferals. No wonder. They were probably drawn by the noise. The sounds from the battle were echoing through the entire city, sure to wake all kinds of lurking things.

Once ferals appeared, Brotherhood forces were torn, their attention divided and weakened. Rays of deadly energy were streaking in all directions. A fireball erupted a block away and MacCready knew that a vertibird had gone down. Feeling a chill, he remembered that Nate was with the Brotherhood. _Oh, criminy. Had that been him?_ Cait’s fate was lost to him as well. Without a decent view of the marketplace, he had no idea how she was faring.

He popped a few ferals and made a Gen-1’s head explode into a hail of sparks and metal debris before dropping down to reload. This entire brawl was insane. The Institute was winning, no doubt, picking off lone combatants as the other two parties ripped into one another on a massive scale. He felt sudden respect bloom for Deacon and Danse. Somehow, the two of them managed to keep an uneasy peace while the rest of their factions were, apparently, bloodthirsty savages bent on vengeance.

His disgust was interrupted by a deep bellow. Leaning out his window, he spotted what looked to be a trash heap lumbering across the bridge, headed their way. It was wielding what looked to be a boat anchor, swinging it in wide arcs, pulverizing a triad of Brotherhood soldiers that were unfortunate enough to not be encased in steel. “Holy fudgebuckets,” MacCready spat, recognizing what it was. The mutant behemoth roared again, dripping in salvaged gear and colossal pieces of snow-white ceramic, its gigantic feet crushing cars as it headed straight towards Bunker Hill. Following that thunderous bellow, there was a microscopic pause in the gunplay below.

“MacCreaady! Cover fire!” Preston’s voice sounded from below, barely perceptible, before the volley slammed back into action.

Fumbling to line up a shot, MacCready peered through his scope, sweeping along the Bunker Hill enclosure, searching for the colonel. A spray of bullets knocked holes around his stone window, and as he ducked a single beam of blue energy flew over his head. MacCready slumped down, hunkering below the sill. He’d been spotted. Enemy forces knew where he was. “Oh… shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit.”

Under the tearing impact of heavy fire, the monument quivered, puffs of dust shaking free between the stonework. More bullets and streaks of light poured through the open window. This was a shitstorm of epic proportions with no way out. He’d missed his chance at a cowardly retreat. As the obelisk quaked violently, he wondered who would get to him first – synth, human or fanged creature. All of them were monsters.

Footfalls echoed up the spiraling stairwell. Dropping his rifle in his lap, MacCready groped to draw his emergency pistol. He chambered a round and aimed it down the shaft. The weapon rattled in his hand as he quivered. Stupid move. He’d never get off enough shots in the cramped quarters of the tower.

He gulped and turned the muzzle towards his temple. His free hand slid into a pocket and gripped his toy soldier tight, whispering an apology to Duncan for sucking beyond belief.


	15. The Veteran

DANSE

Boston Airport Ruins, MA

April 16th, 2288

Danse pondered his victim, kneeling beside the body. With questing fingers, he slid the angular metal holotags, attached to a chain around the feral’s neck, to face him. A leftover scrounger from when the airport had been cleared, the feral had sprung at him, broken teeth visible as it homed in on his throat. Danse made short work of it, plunging his combat knife into its temple. Fragile bone and softened tissue gave way and the thing dropped instantly. It had been a simple kill that hadn’t drawn attention from nearly Brotherhood guards.

He frowned at the creature now sprawled out in death. A buzz of confusion clogged Danse’s brain as he tried to comprehend the identifiers in his palm. The tags were from a Brotherhood registry, but the number was of an old category, and the metal oxidized due to time and the elements. Somewhere, someone had served, turned, and traveled all the way to the Commonwealth. Or traveled and then turned. Or… turned and then served. But where the hell had it wandered _from_? The Prydwen had been anchored for only five months. Maybe he was entirely mistaken and the tags were the prank of some daring raider meant to cause mayhem. He sighed and let the tags fall from his hand. Between John’s bizarre infirmity, the mess in Far Harbor, and the reveal of his own identity, Danse was over trying to make sense of the world.

Standing, he cautiously peered out of the airplane cockpit that he lingered in. Curving steel supports stuck out from the craft like a ribcage. Missing panels formed gaps in the cabin, allowing that wayward feral the chance to slip in. Heavy clanks and the drone of busy personnel drifted over the wall separating him from the airport supply depot. He could spot the top of the gantry, but the assembly of Liberty Prime must have hit a snag – no gleaming head was visible among the framework.

Hardly a secure position, but its purpose served to hide Danse from sight while he waited for his former charge to return. Danse had been left to skulk in the ruins while Paladin Sterling took a short transport up to the Prydwen. The grand bulk of the airship veiled the airport in shadow. How fitting that the sprawling Brotherhood hub should blot out the sun, diminishing natural grandeur in lieu of superior technological prowess. The flight deck was bustling, vertibirds loading and detaching in regular intervals, surely off to stage the grandest offense the Commonwealth had ever seen. Such amass of firepower and personnel could only mean that something had shifted, that some player had made their first move. The scene made Danse wistful to be unable to partake, a hollowness filling his chest as he watched fat-bellied craft glide from view.

It would have been more efficient for Sterling to have taken a vertibird escort from one of the fields near Sanctuary Hills. Instead, they had spent several days crossing the Commonwealth, smuggling Danse into the heart of Brotherhood operations, sticking to shadow and roads less-traveled. Constantly on the move, they only stopped to seize a short overnight rest at Hangman’s Alley, and to briefly pause at an old church in the North End of the city. Danse had been left to wait outside while Sterling ducked into the crumbling building for nearly half an hour. After he emerged, Sterling had jammed his helmet on angrily and refused to speak of what happened. It wasn’t Danse’s place to question him, despite his concern. Sterling was a paladin with full stripes on the forearm of his armor, and Danse wouldn’t dare interrogate a superior.

The effect of watching Sterling march in his old paladin armor was surreal. It was as if he was watching an echo of himself, his suit trying to maintain a status quo while its former operator could only watch. Giving his armor away was the grandest insult Maxson had ever devised. Most salvageable suits were broken down into scrap for new models or the pieces refinished and issued anew. Danse’s suit was intact, the scuffs and rust stains old friends that had seen him through difficult times. He felt quite humble and vulnerable in its presence.

During their trek, Sterling questioned him diligently about Brotherhood rules of engagement, particularly the level of force available and of specific tactics that were part of a standard response. Danse responded with sound advice and stern recommendations. Handling logistics in Goodneighbor was a tedious occupation compared to the grandeur of his former role. Though he felt at ill to say as much to John, Danse longed for a grander purpose. If he could serve as Sterling’s civilian second, such an opportunity was better than he could hope for. But, if he was to be honest with himself, he knew that role belonged to Colonel Garvey.

Unobtrusively, Sterling reappeared, coming around the rear of the airport in his power armor, stomping wide footprints in the sandy beach. A few radgulls took to the air, startled by his approach, flapping lamely with malformed wings. Danse stepped down from the plane’s cockpit to greet him. Watching Sterling disembark from his armor in the lee of the craft, It struck Danse that out of everyone who served under him, only Sterling and Haylen remained. His lungs deflated in defeat and shame. “Almost everyone to stand by my side has either died or forsaken me,” he mentioned flatly, more for his ears than Sterling’s.

Leaving his suit to reseal around an empty center, Sterling approached, clad in his Brotherhood uniform, frowning as he hopped up into the exposed belly of the plane. “I haven’t. And I didn’t.” He glanced behind him, staring back the way he’d come. “And neither did someone else.” He tossed Danse a roguish grin and held up a finger. “Wait for it…”

Danse followed his line of sight. A few seconds passed before Haylen poked her hooded head around the corner, spotting them. She strode towards them with her chin up and hauled herself up into the plane with a grunt. “Paladin Sterling,” Haylen stiffly addressed with a nod. “Danse,” she added, shifting as though nervous. “How have you been?” she asked, her trademark concern present in her eyes.

“Distraught, to be honest,” he answered candidly. “John has been a great comfort to me.” And he had. Despite John’s personal hardships and degenerative mental state, he made every effort to ensure that Danse wasn’t jostled or harassed while adapting. Goodneighbor might be a waning slum, but no one was likely to challenge Danse or hold his past against him.

Haylen’s eyes rounded, and a grimace showed her teeth. “You… you’re still with that thing?” she stammered. “I don’t see how can you stand to look at him, let alone…. you know.”

At her words, Sterling spun and made himself very busy, hugging his Gauss rifle and scanning the area for threats, pointedly keeping his back to them, leaving them to sort out their issues without interference.

Danse’s mouth turned down into a wicked scowl as disappointment swelled. “Oh, Haylen…” he mumbled with a shake of his head. Negligently, he had forgotten that she was still a model Brotherhood soldier, her beliefs rooted as a part of who she was. Danse tried to look at his situation from her perspective. Although he absolutely had, Danse no longer found John repulsive. He just… was the way he was. It wasn’t as if they had just met – how revolting, finding himself sexually attracted to some anonymous ghoul – and he owed John more than tolerance. Though it frightened him, Danse had made a commitment to see John through his change, to be at his side and to face their short future together. He felt guilty over John’s condition, carrying a certain responsibility for it. If he could alter the past, change one moment – a single decision – he was certain John would have never touched that damned radiation drug.

He always seemed to choke on his words, but it was important that he try and explain. So few people were in his corner and the prospect of losing Haylen forever due to a misunderstanding over John was heartbreaking. Maybe she’d never understand. That would be unfortunate. She and Danse had been close for so long, fluttering at the edge of true friendship for years, the strain of their ranks keeping them from true comradery. “I managed to rekindle a previous romantic relationship at no small cost,” he told her as his fists nervously balled. “He wasn’t like this before, whereas I’ve always been a wretched being – shortsighted, intolerant, _and_ synthetic. But despite who – despite _what_ I am – despite what I’ve done that he finds reprehensible, despite the slights and slurs, he cares about me and has the capacity to forgive my actions. And so I can forgive his current exterior.”    

Haylen’s hardened features slacked, her eyes softening. She looked down at her feet before meeting his gaze again. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m used to certain… _opinions_ of yours. Opinions upheld by Brotherhood values. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around everything you’ve gone through, and I just… I miss you, Sir.”

Her _Sir_ both soothed and stung. It was a painful reminder of how straightforward and simple his life had been. He gave her a fragile smile and opened his arms. The stiffness in her spine vanished, and she loosened a huff of laugher before reaching up to drape her arms around his shoulders. The hug they shared was timid but warm. When she laughed again, he felt the vibration against his chest. “Well, the guy seems to be doing something right for you to show any affection _at all_.” Danse mumbled a quiet chuckle into her shoulder.

Sterling gave a dry cough, redirecting their attention. “Can I come back now?” he queried from the rear of the craft. “We’ve got work to do.”

Danse and Haylen drew apart. “Of course,” Danse affirmed, prepared to shoulder any necessary burden. “What do you need?”

Ever the good solider, Sterling stood at stiff attention. “I met with Maxson to discuss a situation that I recently became aware of. My trips to the Institute, they’ve, uh… shined a light on certain facts that we would have otherwise been blind to.”

“What did you find?” Danse asked with an air of suspicion. Although he trusted Sterling, he held a distain for secrets, something which the paladin seemed to thrive on. He didn’t sanction Sterling’s mysterious visits into the heart of enemy territory. Each time he visited the Institute, he returned either withdrawn or furious. Danse would have gladly switched places with him, as he was certain his resolve was higher. If he twisted his head, he would be able to spot the charred remnants of the relay transport that first sent Sterling into the belly of the beast. The scorched pieces of the relay hadn’t been salvaged yet and stood as a technological testament to Brotherhood ingenuity in the open air of the blown-out airport lobby.

Sterling’s furrowed brows and tight lips were straight lines. He inhaled sharply through his nose, and his words had a biting edge to them. “The Institute has at least one rat in Bunker Hill. Word got back to them that the trading post is ground zero for escaped and jeopardized synths. They plan to have a fleet of coursers and automated units bring them back.” He filled his lungs, puffing his chest. “I can’t let that happen. And with the entire Brotherhood of Steel at my back, it won’t.”

Utilizing Brotherhood forces to liberate synths… Danse’s loyalties felt divided. Not that his old prejudices were coming back into play, but the potential loss of soldiers’ lives on behalf of synths was difficult to stomach. In truth, Danse’s opinions were cloudy. Of all his Brothers and Sisters, two were left that still held him in esteem. All his deeds, everything that he had given up or denied for the sake of duty, was now moot. “You’re launching a counterstrike?” Danse guessed with rising dismay.

Sterling shook his head. “If we wait it will be too late. I’m bold, not suicidal.” Sterling pointed overhead at the mass of forces heading out into the field. “The Institute monitors all airwaves in the ‘Wealth. That’s why we took the long walk. I had to tell Maxson personally. The chance to take out a hefty number of coursers? No way he was gonna pass that up.”

“The Institute has our lines tapped?” Haylen yelped, hands closing into fists. “Dammit,” she hissed. “This information would have been appreciated earlier, Sir.” That was as close to a scolding as someone of her rank dared. “But there’s an additional complication. Over the last few hours, several known and suspected Railroad operatives have been spotted congregating within the town perimeter. It seems as if they’re organizing a full assault.” 

The color in Sterling’s face drained and he shouted, “The Railroad? Fuck. No!” He growled though gritted teeth, “I told them to lay low for next few days and let me handle things! They couldn’t wait one day?”

The church they’d stopped at yesterday. Danse’s spine stiffened as he made the connection, feeling relieved that Sterling hadn’t taken him inside. He didn’t want any type of connection to the Railroad, not trusting them to resist grabbing him and scrubbing his memories clean on the spot.

Sterling looked equal parts confused and irate. He paced, his hands twining in his hair. “Maxson’s deployment is supposed to fight the Institute synths while the people of Bunker Hill go to ground! Why would the Railroad get in the middle of all that? No, no, no. Let the Brotherhood clean house! Railroad can deal with their charges after.”

Haylen shook her head. “It’s too late, Paladin. Brotherhood deployments are already converging on the area.”

“Bunker Hill is a Minutemen settlement, isn’t that right?” Danse chimed in, the fact dawning on him. “If word is traveling of an impending attack, wouldn’t Colonel Garvey be sending a team to defend it?”

The paladin cursed up a rainbow storm of insults. “Everybody wants me to help them but no one checks with me before actually doing anything!” he exasperatedly cried. “Out of everyone, the Railroad listens _the least_! They all think they’re solving a problem when they’re only making more!” He leveled a fierce kick to the airplane’s hull that made the weakened support structure shudder. Recovering himself, Sterling pushed his hair from his forehead and said, “We need to get to Bunker Hill, fast. C’mon. I’ve put a ‘bird on reserve.” He headed for his armor.

Danse remained rooted to the spot. This was as far as he could go into Brotherhood occupied territory. He felt aggravated that Sterling would bring him so close to being part of a grandiose event, only to have him watch from the shadows and live vicariously through his former teammates.

“Um, Paladin?” Haylen questioned.

Both Sterling and Danse turned to face her. Embarrassment flared and Danse looked away, his heart heavy. Never again would he carry a title. Such things were reserved for people, not masquerading machines.  

“You’re gonna need a pilot,” Haylen pointed out, approaching him. “All lancers have already been assigned.”

Sterling twisted the release valve on his armor. The back opened invitingly, ready to cradle its operator. “I’ve got a pilot.” Nodding with his chin to Danse, he patted the open suit on the shoulder. “Saddle up,” he ordered.

Danse still hadn’t moved. “Is this the reason you brought me?” he asked, stunned.

“One of them, yeah,” Sterling disclosed. His expression toughened. “If I were to bring some lancer with me, they would happily lay waste to civilians if that meant inflicting more damage – targeting generators and vehicles to explode and damn the consequences for the poor local idiots. You know I’m right. I hold you in higher regard.”

He felt peculiar that Sterling trusted him in this way. Had the man witnessed so many senseless deaths caused by Brotherhood negligence that he would forgo the proper channels, opting to bring an outcast into the fray instead?

“You want me to… steal a vertibird?” Danse attempted to clarify, hoping that he was mistaken. 

“No. Not steal,” Sterling quickly explained. “I have one on reserve at the airport. I just need you to claim it. Haylen and I will meet you on the off-ramp to the airport. That should be far enough away to avoid additional eyes.”

Danse exhaled roughly. It wasn’t quite a sigh, but a sign of submission. He was very good at following orders, even when they set his nerves on fire. After striding to the suit, he hesitated, giving Sterling a once-over glance. The two of them were nearly the same size and bore the same coloring. They could have been brothers through blood instead of combat. From a distance, they could easily be mistaken for one another. “For the record,” Danse stated, “I believe this is a perfect storm of good intentions going awry.”

“Noted,” Sterling acknowledged with a curt nod. “Get in.”

Danse climbed into his armor, which sealed behind him with a well-acquainted hiss, feeling that reassuring squeeze as the suit pressurized. For a precious moment, his life was normal again. He was suited up and ready for battle, safe inside of his shell. His eyes raked over the screen’s display. Sterling had let his helmet fall into disrepair, Danse observed with a sinking heart. Headset displays were notoriously delicate pieces of equipment, prone to short circuits and loss of visual acuity. Several of the onscreen icons were flickering, their readings obscured.

“You good in there?” asked Sterling, knocking on the chestplate.

“Your upkeep is shoddy, solider,” was Danse’s response. “You should surrender this suit to Ingram once our mission is complete.”

He heard Haylen cackle. “That’s our boy!” she quipped.

Hiking up his resolve, Danse set the suit in motion. Without an interfacing undersuit, the armor wasn’t nearly as comfortable as he recalled. The joints and shoulders rubbed abrasively at his skin through his worn clothing. The controls were sluggish and the steps sent unpleasant vibrations into his knees. How on earth did raiders manage to control such advanced gear without the proper attire?

He hopped out of the plane and plodded his way towards the airport security gate. As he walked through the entry and down the path to the tarmac, a stiff breeze came in from the ocean, causing Brotherhood flags to snap in the wind, the proud orange fabric cracking violently as it flapped. His presence drew almost every eye straight to him. Most nodded at his passing. Several even gave salutes, addressing him as ‘ _Paladin Sterling, Sir’_. He tried to recall Sterling’s gait, and if it differed from his own. Despite his armor, he felt naked, wearing a sign that read _Here I Am_ pasted onto his front. Every member of personal he passed sent beads of sweat to trickle icily down his back. The entire experience was harrowing.

Luckily, the airport was undermanned, the majority of able-bodied personnel headed to Bunker Hill. Danse found a handful of initiates seated atop crates outside the supply depot, playing what looked to be a makeshift game of Caravan. Too green to be cleared for field ops, their type had little to do during campaigns like this. They paid him vague attention, possibly because they were unfamiliar with individual officers, their lives an excess of training and menial tasks. Skirting by, Danse overheard an embittered recruit say, “Our brothers better get a few licks in at those synthfuckers in the Railroad. About time they got crushed under our boot.”  

Another gave an exuberant guffaw. “Those radicals are about to get their asses handed to them on a silver platter.”

Danse halted behind a wall of crates, hidden from the small group. For the first time, he was embarrassed by his former regime. He wanted to reprimand these recruits right there, to remind them of who the real enemy was, to not bother concerning themselves with an annoyance like the Railroad when the Institute was looming so large with the threat of a pending attack.

“Think the Railroad’s hiding Danse in there?” one man asked.

Danse’s heart stopped. He didn’t breathe.

“In Bunker Hill, I mean,” that same solider continued. “It’s not like… I mean… his body wasn’t brought back…”

“Jeez, Clarke,” another answered. “You and your conspiracies.”

“No, think about it,” Clarke persisted. “Doesn’t the Railroad change what people look like? What if they made, like, a fake Danse for us to find? They could do that, right?”

The group seemed to think about that for a moment. “I guess,” one of them replied. “You think… is that why the Brotherhood is going all in? To try and reclaim Danse? All this action for a couple of lost synths and the shot to take out a few coursers… the Elder tends to think bigger than that.”

Were these lackluster recruits correct? Was this going to be a bloodbath because of _him_? Sending all able forces in to raid a single Railroad stronghold was overkill, even by Maxson’s standards. Nausea swirled in his gut before dissipating.

Danse set his jaw and continued up the stairs to the acquisitioned tarmac, his armored feet clanking on the concrete. As he crested the top of the stairs, a beautiful sight greeted him. _Invictus_ sat on the landing platform, her polished plating gleaming in the sunshine, white bars of light reflecting off her hull. Her name was still proudly displayed on her tail in Danse’s own scrawl. Had Sterling personally selected this particular gunship for their mission? He must have, knowing what the ‘bird meant to Danse.

The tarmac was vacant of guards. Canting his visor upward, he noticed that all vertibirds had detached from the Prydwen. The battle was on. Crossing the platform, he hoisted himself inside of _Invictus_ and squeezed past the minigun mounted in the frame of the cabin. Danse secured the suit to the floor of the cabin by utilizing the magnets in the feet before sliding out the back of it and into the pilot’s seat. Selfishly, he wasted several seconds to run his hands lovingly over the control panels, tracing the buttons and screens warmed by the sunlight filtering in through the windshield, _Invictus_ feeling alive under his touch. He had assumed that he would never step inside of her again. This ‘bird and this suit – he owed his life to both of them many times over.

Then duty kicked in, and he began the process of getting _Invictus_ into the sky. During preparations, he made sure to disable the tracking system and radio, ensuring that his unit would be off the grid. The wind in his hair felt glorious as he lifted away from the airport. He was free. Briefly, he imagined flying off, of grabbing John and leaving this vile Commonwealth behind. But no. That would self-indulgent. Sterling needed him, and John would never abandon Goodneighbor. For better or worse, this was his life now, assisting from the shadows and sacrificing glory. 

He picked Sterling and Haylen up atop the fractured overpass as planned. Sterling weaved around the minigun and climbed into the armor as Haylen took the navigator’s chair. She handed him her goggles to wear, and he graciously accepted. He and Haylen both donned headsets, and Danse tingled from the amazing rush of doing something so small yet so familiar. As long as Sterling wore helmet, the paladin’s voice would feed through _Invictus_ ’s receivers and their voices would, in turn, be sent back to him.

Soon enough, they were back in the air and on their way to Bunker Hill. They flew over the waterfront, skimming the harbor. Danse was thankful for Haylen’s goggles; the sunlit glare coming up from the ocean was intense.

“Why can’t I move?” Sterling queried over the headset.

Danse guessed that he must be trying to lift his feet to cross the interior. “I’ve magnetized the soles of the armor.”

“Why? What am I going to do – fall out of this thing?”

“You’d be surprised,” Haylen dryly responded.

Sterling kept his mouth shut.

When they approached their endpoint, the battle was already in play, flashes of gunfire and laser light popping all over Bunker Hill. Sterling spewed obscenities into his helmet. Danse kept them at a distance, skirting the surrounding streets. As Sterling had predicted, one tanker truck was already ablaze. Several vertibirds hoved above the enclosure of Bunker Hill’s courtyard, firing their front turrets in lengthy successions, ripping both their targets and ramshackle houses to shreds. Their fire was met by a volley of deadly energy or lead aimed at the fuselages or lancers. Beams of blue light crackled in vertical spears, their energy waves distorting readings on the control panels. One ‘bird staggered in midair, its tail clipping a corner of the monument, sending chunks of granite tumbling from the spire before crashing to the ground in a ball of flame. 

“Fire is too heavy,” Danse observed. Brotherhood ground units were being pummeled by pieces of their own transports. “Haylen, reroute audio feeds. Sterling, get on the com and get these units out of the air. Ground forces should fall back until the sky is clear.”

“Lancers, this is Paladin Sterling,” the man announced to the other air units. He relayed Danse’s orders before Haylen switched the feed back to _Invictus_ only. A few beats of silence passed as the air traffic thinned. Serval veribirds clung to the air above Bunker Hill, too engaged to risk exposing their flanks. “Additional orders, Sir?” Sterling requested.

Apparently, they were both falling into old habits. “Are you asking me to take charge?” Danse questioned, floored.

“I’m still a tourist, Danse. You’re the veteran. It’s your world, not mine. You belong in the field, not behind walls.”

Danse felt knocked off kilter by the praise. He finally caught onto why he had been brought. Sterling’s faith in him was unwavering. Although Danse’s title had been revoked, little had changed between them. He was honored that Sterling still relied on his council, trusting that he knew both the Brotherhood and the Wasteland inside and out, and bestowing him with a purpose. That was one of Sterling’s attributes – grasping his friends’ desires and making them reality.

“Track the Institute relays,” Danse instructed, assuming his role. “At each burst, target the forces appearing at the base. Take the time to search out coursers. They have to take priority. Railroad operatives are an unfortunate irritation. Haylen, take up the gun controls. Search out tell-tale signs of Stealth Boys – shimmering air or intermittent visuals – and flush them out, avoiding direct hits. Aim for distraction, not annihilation.”

Off starboard, a flash of blue light appeared. The deep _whom_ of Sterling’s Gauss declared that he was picking off targets. His rounds were infrequent and controlled, selecting his prey with careful precision while avoiding friendlies. Haylen sent a few scattering shots down from the front turrets, attempting to dispel clusters of enemies firing up at them. Despite her actions, _Invictus_ took intervals of extreme bombardment from ground combatants thirsty to bring down a Brotherhood craft. Bullets pinged off the hull and rattled against Sterling’s armor. Sterling let out a grunt and swore.

“Sterling, sound off,” Danse commanded. “Are you alright?”

“Negative. I’m blind,” came the paladin’s disgruntled reply. “Feed to the screen is out. Now I see why you always take your helmet off.” He blew a sigh. “I’m going to remove it.”

Without his helmet, Sterling wasn’t going to be able to effectively communicate. Now wasn’t the time for a lecture on gear maintenance, but Danse made a mental note to include one once they landed.

Something huge went hurling past the windshield, narrowly missing their craft. Swerving midair, Danse cringed and ducked his head out of reflex. The object struck another ‘bird, which spun off course. It’s engine belched smoke as it went down nearby. _Invictus_ quivered against the force of the ensuing fireball.

Haylen leaned forward into his periphery, rising out of her seat. “Where is it?” She sounded panicky. “Danse? Do you see it?”

“What happened?” Sterling yelled from the cabin, sounding confused. Pinned by the magnetic flooring, he likely couldn’t see out the windshield. “See what where?”

Danse pulled up, gaining elevation and maintaining a level that he prayed was out of range. He scanned the roadways, circling. When he spotted the mutant behemoth, it was crushing a trio of his Brothers with an impressively sized boat anchor. His heart tore for those soldiers. “Affirmative,” he answered Haylen, the rancid taste of disgust in his mouth. Danse swung the craft around, pinpointing the asphalt-chucking behemoth with the front-mounted turrets. It stretched its entire stature, reaching to swing the anchor at _Invictus_ ’ exposed belly.

“Target acquired. Engaging. Haylen, light it up!” Danse instructed. She lurched forward, gripping the gunnery controls as he held the craft steady. Haylen released a torrent of concentrated ammo into the roaring beast.

“What going on?” Sterling shouted again in alarm.

“Sterling, mount that minigun!” Danse baked over his shoulder, wildly gesturing with one arm. “Fire!”

Sterling leaned out of the galley, squinting, following Haylen’s trail of fire. His mouth fell open. He must have finally seen it. Lurching into action, Sterling reached for the minigun, swung it forward and began unloading it into the mutant. 5mm casings flowed downwards like hail, spilling across the floor and cascading out of the ‘bird. Sterling bared his teeth in a battle cry swallowed up by the echoing churn of minigun fire, a deafening though thrilling sound.

The exhilaration was overpowering. This was what Danse lived for; the battle, the rush, working the advantage, playing the game he knew best – war. If allotted, Danse would capture this moment and happily live in it for eternity. The rush of blood, the surge of adrenaline, it was essential. Without it, he was lost. He’d been built to love this, to need it in his blood, to require it like air.

His knuckles tightened over the throttle. He couldn’t go back to Goodneighbor after this. John would have to understand.


	16. Burn It to the Ground

DEACON

Bunker Hill, MA

April 16th, 2288

This wasn’t his best disguise.

His scavenged synth field armor was stiff and clunky, chaffing in the armpits and other places. The narrow lenses of the helmet proved difficult to see through, tinted so dark that it looked like nighttime in the Commonwealth. The resin was still pristinely bone-white, unblemished by bloodstains; the deceased Gen-2 he’d stripped it from had none to spill. He carried an Institute-issued laser pistol, wishing for something with more firepower. If the Institute’s weapon of choice couldn’t shoot through a wet paper bag and their clothing didn’t sit right in the crotch, no wonder synths ran.

Arriving fashionably late to a massacre always meant there would be a plethora of bodies to pillage for clothing. He had discarded his caravanner clothes upon arrival. Too many variables were in play, and none of his options were ideal. Dress as a civilian, probably get shot. Dress like he was from the Railroad, definitely get shot. Brotherhood? Get super shot. Institute? Get super-duper shot. But the Railroad knew his face. And if the Institute recorded an image of him? Oh, he didn’t even want to think about that. Sure, he could have found a suit of power armor, but would have promptly become a slow moving, obvious target. So, he’d play the part of a Gen-2 and see where that got him. Deacon was no fool. He was also under the influence of a Stealth Boy. When it puttered out – and it would – he’d be ready with Plan B… and C.

Yesterday, when Fixer had popped into HQ, he’d appeared in his standard mode – bringing bad news and wearing his Brotherhood armor to boot – he’d warned of some pending noise at Bunker Hill. Great. Just add that to the problem pile. Curie’s group had been retrieved from the catastrophe of Covenant, but they weren’t the only synths that were taking refuge in Bunker Hill. The whole place served as a synth storage facility, as having freshly-wiped or newly-escaped synths wandering Goodneighbor was a bad idea. The Bunker Hill packages were being debriefed and categorized below the marketplace by external heavies, those who operated outside of the HQ, minders that had no idea what they were about to face.

Desdemona’s response had been evasive, cantering around the promise to stay out of it, and soon as Fixer had shoved his wide armor out the crypt doorway, she sprang into action. Glory was appointed task leader for this retrieval, which meant nothing short of utter carnage, and the elimination of all opposing forces. At her appointment, Deacon had taken the initiative and slunk out escape tunnel. He now had a perfect opportunity to play the part of the heroic lover, and he’d be damned to hang back while another woman that cared for him died for the crime of being a synth. It could be argued that Fixer had given him a wink, a nod, tapped out Morse Code against his armor, anything that gave Deacon the permission to defy Desdemona’s orders to hang back. A feeble enough lie. But hey, in HQ or with Fixer, right? Those had been the options Desdemona had given him.

Crouched beneath a stone archway in the south alley, Deacon grimaced behind his mask. The battle outside of the city was deafening – vertibirds above, gunfire all around, and the Brotherhood spouting ridiculous propaganda-laced battle cries. There was someone up in the tower, taking potshots at coursers, causing their blood to paint Pollock-y artwork across the granite. He dodged and wove through the streets and through a broken side gate, darting from one cover to the next; a Stealth Boy wouldn’t protect him from stray bullets. The whole place was shaking, or maybe it was just the concussive gunfire rattling Deacon’s bones.

In the vacant arena of the marketplace, Deacon took refuge behind a partially collapsed stall as his Stealth Boy ran out. Bodies were heaped here and there, sprawled across the floor. He just had to outlast the initial carnage. There would be a break in the assault – there always was – where he would slip into the basement, joining his brethren as they pushed onwards. He’d have to move past them, of course, to secure Curie and drag her out before the full fight reached the holding area at the base of the complex. The Railroad might be down to relentlessly defend that handful of synths, but Curie… he couldn’t be sure that their intentions extended to her. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the Railroad, but he was dubious of battlefield decisions, especially Glory’s. He couldn’t take the chance that she’d put Curie’s safety last.

Something very large and angry bellowed on the opposite side of the makeshift fencing. A brief moment of reprieve clutched Bunker Hill; no one was currently shooting or dying in the near vicinity. The air was still – no more active Stealth Boys. With a sinking feeling, Deacon guessed where the Railroad had pushed to. He stooped to drag his fingers through a nearby pile of ash. The few accouterments that lay nearby – standard issue laser rifle and a few pieces of flaked-off plating – identified the heap of residue as belonging to a Brotherhood solider. With a few quick strokes over the front of his chestpiece he marked out the rail sign for _ally_ , as getting shot by his own people would have been embarrassing. Painted with the blood of his enemy, Deacon felt almost primal. Too bad he held a laser instead of a club.

Voices and the clank of armor cut through the eerie stillness of the market. A stern looking man in a long black coat led a cluster of Gen-1s and 2s through the bazaar. A courser. Deacon supposed that opportunity tended to present itself where it did. Okay, then. He’d accept cover fire where he could.

Scurrying out of his nook, he fell into line with them. It took a few strides to get the Gen-2 walk down, kind of stiff in the hips and with heavy footfalls. There was no need for dialogue – he knew their destination. The courser crouched behind a stall and wrested a heavy utility door up from the ground and, one by one, the other synths – and Deacon – slid into basement. The courser dropped down after them.

Bare bulbs against black caused his vision to white out. Between the tinted lenses of the field helmet and his shades underneath, he was practically blind for a few moments until his eyes adjusted. Deacon stuck close to the courser as the synth platoon navigated a brick passageway lit with string lights. He’d been down in the bowels of Bunker Hill before, but the atmosphere bore little resemblance to his previous trips.  

That moment of calm was long gone. The walls were practically shaking from the torrent of munitions being fired up ahead. Miniguns and assault carbines and Gauss rifles rolled out like thunder. The cachoo, cachoo of a railway rifle announced its existence, furiously blasting shot after shot. The courser didn’t speak; he signaled the rest of his squad with hand gestures. The earlier models plunged into an adjoining cavern, and Deacon was left with little choice but to follow, lest he blow his cover as Synth Solider X.

The underground display of firepower was astronomical. From evaluated positions, Railroad heavies fired down into a trapped squadron of Brotherhood soldiers. Heedless of the bullets pinging off his plating, one armored Brotherhood knight tossed a pair of Gen-1s like ragdolls, smashing them against cement columns. A paladin twisted a Gen-2 in its massive steel-plated hands, tearing it completely in half, and sending a flurry of sparks spilling from the thing’s mechanical guts. The unarmored grunts took heavy damage, firing madly as they staggered into death.

Railroad agents might be few and far between, but there existed an impressive number of reserve players that weren’t good much else other than firepower. They were often young and impressionable, and in the bigger picture, expendable, prepared to give their all for the liberation of synthkind. Their bodies littered the Wastes, sometimes from battle, sometimes from talking to the wrong people. Scavvers, raiders, mom and pop America – everyone was happy to put holes in Railroad reps. They were the great unifier of the Commonwealth. It was perplexing to see the balance shift in their favor.

The troop of synths dispersed into the melee. Deacon kept just out of range, his Institute pistol pointed stiffly ahead, firing off random bursts of fire directed overhead and at the walls, letting the courser cover him, guiding him deeper into the bunker. He spotted Glory on a ledge, the belt of her minigun churning as she cut down soldiers in a hail of bullets. The entire Brotherhood platoon was pinned down, trapped in the center of the cavern as Railroad heavies and turrets laid into them. The cave stank of the combination of gunpowder, burned ozone, coppery blood and charred flesh.

“Push ahead!” the paladin shouted, her armor stripped down to the frame. “Radio any record of M7-97 to base!”

 _Well_ , Deacon thought as he slipped through a hole in the basement wall, his courser carving a path, _this is a new twist_. It looked as if Maxson wasn’t quite ready to write off the asset that used to be his friend. Danse must remain a loose end that the Brotherhood felt it needed to tie up. Suddenly, his presence was validated. Technically, Deacon was still Danse’s handler, his case unresolved. Whether out of pity for Danse or playing his cards close to his chest, Fixer had only given Deacon the barest of details. If the Brotherhood had doubts about Danse’s _death_ or had come across new information, Deacon needed to be aware of that.

With his back to the wall, he slid around the bloodbath, trying to slip deeper into the facility without drawing attention. It was an easy feat, as all sides were busily tearing into one another. Additional synth units burst into existence, riding channels of blue light to shoot members of both warring factions in the back. It was pure chaos, clear that both the Railroad and the Brotherhood had lost control over their campaigns, blindly allowing the Institute to get the upper hand while they fed on revenge. One by one, soldiers crumbled to the ground, either in a loose-limbed tumble of death or in a crash of inactive power armor.

He felt both vindicated and awful that the Brotherhood was having their asses handed to them like this. The Railroad could have easily slipped in and out, no shots fired, but nooooo, Dez had to put Little Miss Trigger-Finger in charge. He briefly pictured Danse in this fight and knew that his command would never have come unglued in this manner. Both Danse and Deacon understood the frustration between the Brotherhood and the Railroad; they shared it. But if his kids couldn’t listen and play nice, Danse would most certainly pull over and turn this massacre around.

“Bunker Hill is ours!” some heavy announced, unleashing a stream of assault rifle fire into the final Brotherhood of Steel survivor.

Well, it was about to be no ones’ if this bombardment kept up. Deacon half-excepted the entire monument to come crashing down through the ceiling. Deacon’s courser was putting up a hell of a fight, a gladiator in what had become an arena littered with bodies. The Railroad tightened their focus on the Institute forces. Deep blue streaks of Gauss charges did battle with the paler beams of Institute laser weapons. Some synth eradicator picked up a discarded Gatling laser, curtesy of some dead soldier, and the tides turned. Red beams of instant death spread out in a wide display, reducing several Railroad operatives to piles of hot ash.

Glory tossed her spent minigun aside, grabbed up a dropped railway rifle and promptly shot Deacon’s courser through the head with a railroad spike. The courser staggered for a moment, remaining upright for a few heartbeats before toppling backwards. The remaining heavies concentrated their fire on the eradicator, causing it to violently jerk under the impacts of bullets. The Gatling laser fell to the ground with a heavy thump, and the destroyed synth’s body followed suit.

A break in the battle occurred. No synths phased in and no shots rang out. Still head-to-toe in field armor, Deacon sensed his disguise was about to backfire. He backed out of the basement and crept around a corner, entering the concrete tube of a service tunnel, putting distance between himself and the Railroad operatives. “Enjoy hell, fucker!” someone screamed at him from behind. He whirled in what he hoped was a graceful manner.

Wow, Glory had covered ground fast. Her small, strong body blocked the entry to the tunnel. Dirty white hair fell into her round, battle-crazed eyes. She wore a sadistically wide grin, staring down the sight of the railgun. Her gaze raked over the rail symbol on his chest, staving her fire. Deacon threw his arms in the air, pointing to one side in distinctively non-synth gesture. “Hey, did you see a wild brahmin come through here?” he asked, his voice loud, though muffled by the helmet. “It owed me two-hundred caps.”

Glory’s callous face shifted to an almost disappointed sulk, like he’d taken her candy away. No, no death for you right now. “Shit… Deacon.” The rifle dipped away from him. “You’re really bad at listening to orders.”

He lowered his hands. “I listen. But it’s the whole _choosing to obey_ part that’s is so subjective.”

She gave him a sly look. “You come to rescue your woman?”

“Pfft. Clearly, you’ve mistaken me for someone chivalrous. That’s what I get for having good breeding and height.”

Retreating a few steps back into the combat arena, Glory ordered, “Don’t move.”

“Rooted to the spot.”

The epic, earth-quaking sound of gunfire had faded. Through the fracture in the broken wall, he heard Glory direct the surviving heavies to get back up to the surface and deal with their casualties. When she reappeared, she was all business again, her eyes and mouth hard with purpose. The railway rifle was up and aiming. “Come with if you need to,” she snapped as she pushed past him. “But don’t try and pull anything. Remember the first rule of the Railroad.”

“Um… no one talks about the Railroad?” he asked, falling into step with her.

She faced him, mouth twisting unpleasantly. “That synth liberation comes first. And to hell with anyone who gets in the way.”

Deacon was pretty sure that wasn’t an official party line.

They maneuvered through a concrete service tunnel riddled with the pockmarks of gunshots. They took one step into the adjoining hallway and immediately leapt back. Turrets, likely placed by Bunker Hill settlers just in case of this exact scenario, opened fire on them. Glory sent a few railway spikes to slice the air, and the stout machines burst apart in small fireballs that sent flak soaring.

They found themselves in the furthest portion of the basement level. Descending a set of stairs, they heard a scuffle – shouting and the telltale sound of bodily impacts. But there were no shots fired. They briefly met each other’s gaze before hustling towards the racket.

A few early synths had gotten past the first cavern and the hallway traps, cornering the small band of Covenant survivors in a storage room with no rear exit. The skeletal robots had been disarmed, and sloppily fought hand-to-hand against their sturdier opponents. The Gen-3 survivors were armed with anything that hadn’t been nailed down – random tools, wrecked metal chairs, even a shovel – hammering the Gen-1s into submission. Ha. How embarrassing for the Institute.  

There Curie was, being a little badass, wielding a length of broken dowel like a spear, lunging at her attackers, holding her own. In a fight, she wasn’t reckless like Cait, or nervous like Piper. Curie carried out maneuvers with a cool sense of detachment, unhindered by pesky morals or second guesses. _Though she be but little, she is fierce_ , Deacon thought with pride. Gen-1s were being slaughtered, stabbed at and crushed. A fire extinguisher come down solidly on one’s head, popping its cranial shell like a smashed egg.  Another met its end when Amelia Stockton shoved a butter knife through an optic and into its electronic brainmeats. 

As Glory fired off a few spikes that ended the melee, Deacon slid up behind Curie and placed a hand on her back. At his touch, Curie’s shoulders seized in surprise and she whirled, bringing the pointed end of her rod down. It jabbed through a gap in Deacon’s armor, slipping in between his ribs. The force of the impact was strong enough to knock him off his feet. He yelped and fell, his hand dropping to grasp the lance in place. The pain came after the shock, and he slid to the floor as his breath began to hitch. Standing over him, Curie’s eyes sparkled with savage triumph, her shoulders rising and falling with each deep gasp.

Well, he was glad that _she_ was enjoying breathing. He made a tactical decision to remove his helmet instead of yanking the rod out. With one hand holding onto the dowel, he sank his free fingers under the helmet and pried it off. Curie’s pleased manner shifted into astonishment when she saw his face. She sank to his side, prattling frantic apologies in French.

He ground his teeth and shook his head. “No… my bad,” he wheezed. “Shoulda worn my shades… on the _outside_ of the helmet.” He dropped the helmet and curled his fingers a few times in Glory’s direction.  “Pak me,” he pleaded. Glory fished a stimpak out of a pocket and tossed it at him. Curie caught it and began to tend to his wound, shaking her head and forming a long, rushed sentence in French of what he assumed were curses. Hell, if he’d known she was this capable, he would have been sipping a Dirty Wastelander on some beach, not bleeding like a poked voodoo doll underground. Hmm. This caring stuff was clearly perilous. He recalled too clearly the newly-synthed Curie, ambling about like a baby radstag in Sanctuary, still unsure of how to move her arms and legs. She’d adjusted well, probably while Deacon had been busy with the two-thousand other tasks he was responsible for.

Not one for coddling, Glory didn’t wait around for the stimpak to kick in, and instead herded the cluster of Gen-3s out of the sublevel and back towards the surface. Deacon and Curie took up the rear, leaning on her as his injury continued to knit, becoming more of an annoying itch then something life-threatening. The image of his height against hers was probably pretty hilarious. He cackled to himself, a little loopy from blood loss and an adrenal-crash.

The way out was silent as the grave. Everyone, and everything, was dead. Synthetic and organic bodies carpeted the cavern floor. Outside, it was still daylight. How could it still be daytime? Hadn’t the entire battle taken days? Sure felt like it. One last vertibird circled the air a few streets over. Its mounted minigun was churning out death, the hot casings falling like rain, metal droplets glinting in the sunlight.

A few thick-coated heavies appeared, rushing down from Bunker Hill’s bedraggled housing. The rescued synths, apart from Curie tucked under Deacon’s arm, were hastily slapped with Stealth Boys and whisked away. Poof. Gone. Like they’d never existed, leaving Glory, Curie and himself alone in the market.

Success. It was a Railroad victory.

Kind of.

Amongst the stalls, Deacon paused to exchange his salvaged armor for trader attire. The three of them stepped from the enclosed market and out into the sun, the obelisk at the center of town stretching up over them. Bunker Hill residents popped their heads out of ramshackle shacks and around corners to gauge the probability of safety. Glory beamed, her skin glowing like hot copper in the light. “We won,” she stated, rare smile lines crinkling the corners of her eyes.

Deacon countered her pride with a frown. “Did we? Hell, did anybody? That statement seems like a highly debatable alternative fact,” he said.

He had never witnessed a bloodbath of this magnitude before. Wounded were being tended to by medics from their own factions. Blood had collected in puddles and slicks spanning the market floor, dark red in the shadows, stark against the granite. Thick, black, stinking smoke curled into the air from beyond the gates, remnants of vehicles set ablaze by gunplay. A dog bayed somewhere past the courtyard, on the other side of the monument, adding to the grief of the scene. There were going to be numerous empty bunks and vacant hideouts tonight. This was always the worst part, not that fighting and dying didn’t have their own drawbacks, but waiting after a battle, counting survivors and looking for familiar faces that would never appear, yeah, that was pretty terrible.

He turned his shades to face Glory. “Do me a solid?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I was never here. I’m back at HQ right now, lurking in the escape tunnels – mirelurking if you will, heh –and trying not to pull the hair outta my wig in boredom. Curie…” He looked at the little synth, squeezing her hand, and she smiled up at him. She felt warm and solid, reassuring. She was safe. The risk had been worth it to see her handle her own with such confidence. “…she went out with you. You didn’t want to let G5-19 out of your sight.”

Glory pulled a face, and Deacon was almost certain that she’d deny him. Her sneer relaxed though, and her eyes drifted over Curie’s face. “Yeah… seems like something I’d do,” she agreed. “Out of respect for G5, I’d make sure her body was safe.” The moment was almost touching, plucking at heartstrings all around. That was the Railroad though – one big, dysfunctional, happy family. Although the _happy_ part was often in short supply. So was the _big_.

The sounds of footsteps behind them caused Glory to whip her railway rifle up. Deacon’s hand hovered by his Institute pistol as they turned.

“Jeez. Look at this place. This is way we can’t have nice things… like the ability to take five steps without getting blood on my boots.”

MacCready.

Cait was by his side as they exited the monument, her clothing and hair sprayed with gore. Smudges marked where she’d tried to wipe her face clean. Judging by the fulsome smirk she wore and the bloodied bat in her hand, none of it was hers. “It’d be your own blood drippin’ down those stairs if I hadn’t come to rescue you,” she chided with quirked brows. Huffing, MacCready pursed his lips and tried to look indignant, but didn’t argue. 

Glory took Curie’s elbow, clearly eager to rejoin her team and wrap this mission up. Deacon and Curie squeezed each other’s fingers as they parted but didn’t kiss goodbye. Blech. That kind of thing was for kids and for folks with nothing to hide. He didn’t fall into either category.

The merc, the fighter and the fraud all hung about for a few minutes, sharing a pack of MacCready’s cigarettes. Their champion emerged, stomping over the broken front gate. Fixer, still in his paladin power armor sans helmet, began barking orders, initiating a brief battlefield truce so that Bunker Hill could be cleared of bodies. Agents and soldiers leapt to obey, retrieving their fallen without acknowledging each other. A collection of Brotherhood scribes counted casualties, pulling holotags for records. Deacon spotted a Railroad heavy dragging a body towards a shaded corner of the marketplace stacked with corpses. For now, the bodies of Institute synths lay forgotten, their busted carcasses long done spitting sparks.

A few settlers had been caught up in the conflict. When their bodies were discovered, lumped in with the rest of the dead, Fixer’s scowl matched Deacon’s own. It wasn’t as if the people of the Wastes had been down to support the Railroad, the Brotherhood, _or_ the Institute before his, but now the final nail seemed poised over the coffin – no one was likely to forget what happened here today, and they certainly wouldn’t forgive. All factions had made additional enemies today.

A whining dog wove its way through the grieving groups and attempted to tangle itself between Fixer’s study metal legs, which made sense once Deacon placed the pooch as Dogmeat. “What’s going on, pal? What is it?” Fixer questioned the canine. Dogmeat darted off, scampering around the obelisk. Fixer followed with lumbering steps.

His alibi secured, Deacon slunk off when MacCready and Cait weren’t looking to trail Fixer’s path. Coming around to the front of Bunker Hill, he stopped short as Fixer wailed a long, infuriated note. The next few steps he took were cautious. Kessler stood at the mouth of the busted-in front gate, talking to Fixer, although little of what said traveled to Deacon’s ears. Apologies mostly, stoic in tone. Fixer was absolutely still, his face a wan mask, metal fists clenched at his sides. Dogmeat was prone on the ground, head on his paws, ears back.

At Kessler’s feet lay Preston Garvey.

It appeared that Preston had been caught in one hell of a crossfire while holding the gate.He had been shot by all factions; burns from Brotherhood lasers, holes from Institute rifles, and bullet wounds from the humans. Larger caliber holes from Railroad agents and smaller rounds from the Bunker Hill residents all marred his body and clothing.

Although Deacon and Preston hadn’t been close, Fixer and the Colonel were, and if Deacon had been a man plagued by emotions, he would have felt for the General’s grief. Even if they ran in different circles, Deacon could commend the hard work that had been done. The Minutemen were a respectable force now, providing an environment where tagged-and-released synths could live without fear of immediate death. And it was all due to motions Preston had put into play. Deacon doffed his rag hat in respect.

Was this it? The end of the Minutemen? It was no secret that Fixer was the General, but he also had a whole buttload of other responsibilities to other groups, not to mention the entirety of Valentine’s Detective Agency on his shoulders. Poor guy. And now Deacon would have to tell him that the story about Danse wasn’t sticking very well, risking his status with the Brotherhood.

Now close enough to hear the conversion, Kessler was promising, “We’ll send the Colonel to the Castle. You have my word. It’s the least we can do. Is… isn’t that where he’d want to be?”

Fixer’s mouth was clenched in a firm line. He cast a dark look at Deacon, eyes narrowing as he recognized him. He jerked a stiff nod at Kessler, turned and stalked down the entry steps, masking his grief with determined fury as he strode into the street. Dogmeat rose and rushed to lope at his side.

Deacon followed, long legs closing the distance between them. “Where you off to, partner?” he called in a careful voice, not wanting to risk pushing Fixer over the edge.

“To burn Covenant to the ground.”

Well, that seemed like the best idea Deacon had heard all day. “Hold up. Nothing like a bonfire to bring folks together. We can make Fancy Lad s’mores over the toasty corpses of our foes. Good times.”

Fixer didn’t respond but kept plodding onward, turning at a junction in the road and marching down an alley.

“Hey, uh, boss? Covenant’s the other way,” Deacon reminded.

“I know,” Fixer said without turning his head. “Danse is waiting for my report at a fallback position. And I have to give something away.”

Deacon’s fingers slid up his neck to scratch under his wig. “Oh, yeah, hey. About Danse...”


	17. How Lucky We Are

JOHN

Goodneighbor, MA

March 21st, 2281

Upon waking, John didn’t know where he was. On his belly atop a couch, that much he knew for sure. His mouth was dry, and the telltale signs of a hangover were close at hand – nausea tickling his throat and a throb in his temples. He gingerly stretched unto his back. Letting his gaze drift, he caught many a drifter in more or less the same position as him, draped in chairs or lounging on patchwork couches, having forgone stumbling up the stairwell to claim rooms on the upper level. Some folks had even claimed patches of floor, sleeping or chasing the ends of a chem trip.

The lobby of the Hotel Rexford looked like it always did. Thick, plush rugs covered much of the floor, tarnished hardwood peeking out in between the mats. Gentle, rosy light filtered in through the dirty windows, curtesy of the neon sign outside. Out of sight, a generator softly chugged, sending power to the few partially-lit chandeliers hung from above. Scattered custodians worked silently, trying to clear the room of litter before the tenants regained their senses. On an adjacent chaise, he caught Emogene Cabot in the arms of William Black, both snoring. In the Rexford’s gauzy half-light, Blaine Pickman glided through the tangle of sleepers in his patched suit looking like a fine connoisseur, assessing his peers.

Rexford, the retreat of the Commonwealth, was the place to be. Good-looking folks with caps to spare enjoyed extravagant parties on a weekly basis, drinking and chemming themselves into oblivion while music played too loudly, and inhibitions were abolished. Marowski kept the finest, most exotic chems flowing through his doors and the most potent alcohol on stock, while Vic lurked out of sight in the State House, leaving the businessman alone to do his business. No wonder. While Vic might have a handhold on the local government, his status came from the mountain of caps the Marowski family pumped through town.   

John lumbered to his feet, rolled his neck a few times to crack it, and wondered what time it was. His hands wandered to his pockets, checking to see if he was robbed in the night, though under Marowski’s guards that kind of thing didn’t happen much. But too many people knew who he was. Ever since he got that plaque affixed to his door at Home Plate, he’d learned to be cautious. _J. McDonough_ , it read, _Diamond City Treasury Dept_.

When his Rexford invitations had begun arriving, his first though had been that he was either handling his life entirely wrong or entirely right. The height of his popularity and influence had taken him somewhat by surprise. He’d been productive, throwing himself into work, trying to turn himself into someone that he – and Danse – could be proud of. He surmised that his brother had him appointed as city treasurer purely to allow John to become a spectacular failure before the eyes of the people. John had surprised everyone, including himself, at how successful he was at spinning multiple metaphorical plates in the air without error. He enjoyed the predictability of accounting, any flaws in ledgers immediately apparent and able to be dealt with. His brain naturally categorized complicated factors into ideas, he was a phenomenal negotiator due to his quick tongue, and he utterly refused to compromise. Diamond City was flourishing, and John had no shame in giving himself most of the credit for that. His brother was livid at his success. The plaque Mayor Robert’s had affixed to John’s door only fueled their dispute.

It was _John_ shadow-managing Diamond City for Mayor Roberts, _his_ financial systems in place, _his_ trade routes bolstered by the addition of the Crimson Caravan to bring supplies from the west, while _his_ brother took the credit. The people in the streets knew him, shook his hand and offered him trinkets, but up in the stands he was still some newcomer, riding high on his birth, shaking up the status quo. John might have had had Roberts’ ear and the peoples’ respect, but it was Guy that had the entire city council under his thumb and his hand in the most influential of pockets. John’s extensive knowledge of market statistics and current Wasteland affairs couldn’t quite break down any doors for him, particularly while his portly brother took every opportunity to block his way. John’s title was a gift from Guy, meant to keep him placated, but he hadn’t been offered a place in the stands. Just as well – it was easier to slip in and out of down at ground level.

Still groggy, John stumbled across the lobby, carefully stepping over those too far gone to notice him. Even in their stupor, the guests still wore their finest – dresses with hardly any tears, and crisp shirts and trousers close to their original color – the pressure of maintaining a certain image a necessity for survival. They came from all over, delighted that someone as powerful as Marowski took an interest in them. Diamond City, mostly, or from the surrounding fortified households. Caps meant security, and those with more than their share stood a higher chance of an innocuous life safe above the riff-raff infighting in the streets or the challenge of feeding ones’ family by peddling scrap.

John wasn’t dense. He understood that this was Marowski’s way of keeping an eye on all the biggest players in the region, luring them under his thumb with promises of exclusivity, which equaled a rise in status, which equaled more influence, which meant that Marowski had the right to call in any favors he wished. Brilliant tactic, honestly. John kept a mental roster of all attendees, just, ya know, in case blackmail was necessary. Couldn’t let Marowski be the only one to gain an upper-hand.

He lit a cigarette as he shouldered through the Rexford’s front door, ignoring the post-chem throb of a headache. The way the shadows were crawling across the asphalt, it must be late afternoon. The outside of the hotel was very different than within. The mattresses lining the streets were full of drifters, drinking swill out of bottles without labels, writhing in chem-induced fits, or simply staring blankly ahead, all hope and drive stolen.

As he smoked, taking a path around the State House and out of the hamlet, he considered taking a handful of Mentats to fight the ache in his skull. Hair of the chem you swallowed, and all that. Making a thoughtful sound in his throat, he declined his own offer. Although he had an impressive amount of chems at his disposal, he rarely used them, opting to rely on them only for work, to push himself further. And, well yeah, during the occasional bender in Goodneighbor where faded was preferable. Too heavy a use and he’d find it impossible to step away from the pills, needles and inhalers so prevalent in Wasteland life. Normally, he couldn’t care less, but on the all-too-rare occasions when he would find himself with Danse, he didn’t want to feel blurry. He wanted every moment they shared to be crystal clear and dedicated to memory. Plus, withdrawal sucked when you were supposed to be on a sex-riddled visit with your man.

As a coral sunset blazed over Boston, the glow warming tall, sun-bleached buildings, John cautiously picked his way back home, sticking to shadows and squeezing though narrow alleyways, hugging the safe route back to Diamond City.

The sky had darkened significantly by the time he reached the rear loading doors of the stadium. After waiting for a break in the guards’ rotation, he slipped through a side door opening into a VIP green room that led up into the field, traipsing through darkened, forgotten passageways. He emerged amid a collapsed section of bleachers, an area of town where residents disposed of broken equipment not worth salvaging and ringed by stacks of discarded tires. Sometimes the city would burn the heap of discards before adding more to the smoldering pile.

Standard curfew was in effect, the walkways playing host to thinning traffic. Infrequent commerce commenced in the shops, with robots left to operate stalls. The restriction existed under the idea that darkness spurred the Institute into action, boogeymen leaping at the chance to snatch the lone traveler away. And who knew? Maybe that was true.

John, mostly sober now, picked up his steps as he skirted right field, eager to make it home without bumping into anyone that would give him grief – not that folks from the stands had much reason to wander down this far.

“John? Is that you?”

He froze, eyes darting around to try and pinpoint the voice amid nightfall. Eliza Roberts sat by the edge of a water purifier erected atop a sizable pond near the back end of town. Her bare, wrinkled feet trailed in the clear water, the skirt of her faded dress spread out in a circle on the dock. “What are you doing out after curfew?” he said, approaching her.

She tilted her head coquettishly, the dark curls of her wig tumbling across one side of her face. “What are _you_ doing out?” she countered, an air of mischief in her rough voice.

“I’m a grown-ass man,” he said, folding his arms. “I do what I want.”

Dipping her head, she gazed up at him. If she had eyelashes left, she would have been batting them. “Stay with me for a while?” she asked, rubbing the area next to her with the flat of her palm.

The side of John’s mouth pinched as he tried to think of what to say. He knew where she wanted this to lead. She’d managed to churn through all the ghoul-curious men in town, but he’d conisstantly kept himself out of her reach, perhaps the last checkmark she had left on a list of conquests.

Eliza Roberts, the eternally hormonal teenager. John understood, really, he did. As a young man, still underage on Liberty Ilse, he’d gotten a girl pregnant. That had been the turning point in his life where everything became shit for a long while. But that girl was long dead, along with what could have been their child, joined in death by a collection of old comrades that had dared to befriend a youthful and reckless John.

He granted her a simple smile, bumping her shoulder with his fist. “Not this time, toots. See you around.”

Eliza looked down into the water, her reflection marred by faint ripples. “You always say that.”

“Maybe. But I always do see you, right?” Just not in the way she wanted, probably on his back. He was an attractive man and knew it, but leading someone on, even unintentionally, just felt rude. Better that the two of them play it safe and honest.

“Do _you_ think I’m a whore?” she asked with a hint of wistful hurt.

“Don’t you use that word,” John reprimanded. A brief, dark cloud of anger expanded in his chest. He hated seeing good people tear themselves down. “You’re doin’ what makes you happy. No shame in that. No judgement. Folks should keep their highfalutin’ mouths shut.”

She grimaced at the pond, absently spinning a ring on one of her gnarled fingers. “Goodnight, John.”

“…night,” he said, leaving her to her ponderings. It seemed like Eliza was growing up, at least in her own head, aware of the harsh whispers and outright laughing behind her back. Though, it remained to be seen if she really did want to change, to stop chasing men and find her place in Diamond City society.

The towering reactor at the center of the market spewed clouds of vapor into the evening sky, obscuring the emerging stars. Though the chems had faded in his system, John still felt tight, amped. Diamond City had that effect on him, making him feel like an animal in a cage, left to pace back and forth in an unnatural state of boredom. He should be out in the city, making a difference and swaying an unfortunate tide, beating the monsters and the agitators back, claiming the whole of Boston as a haven, a whole militia at his disposal. He could imagine that reality, and his heart swelled to think of it. But being an unreliable marksman of limited strength and influence stymied that plan. So, he’d do what he did best instead – pass the time.  

He slowed as he passed the door to Wiseman’s shack, giving it a few raps with his knuckles. The pale ghoul appeared within moments, one brow ridge raised in a, _Yeah? What do you need?_ manner. “Top level of Home Plate. Bring some sluggers,” John instructed. He was offered a ragged grin, and the ghoul closed his door. John turned and trudged the rest of the way home, taking a brief detour to lift a basket of baseballs from Moe’s unwatched storefront, leaving a bag full of caps under the counter in compensation.

Arms full, he fumbled with his key and shouldered his way into his domicile, driving an elbow against the switch that set string lights looped throughout his home aglow. After dropping the basket onto his second-level bed he freed himself from his traveling armor and deposited his handgun atop a shelf. He snagged a loose shoelace, leftover from his hypodermic days, and tied back his mess of blonde hair.

A level below, the unlocked door banged open. “That you?” John called.

“Who else?” Wiseman’s gruff voice answered. He climbed the short stairs up to John’s level, an aluminum baseball bat in each hand, the barrels resting atop his shoulders. 

Their friendship was mutually beneficial. While the city council had no place for John, per Guy’s insistence, Wiseman had served for years and, much to Mayor Robert’s disappointment, was currently the only other ghoul voice at town meetings. Wiseman fed John crucial information about finances and shifting trading policy that made John’s job in the treasury department less laughable. Without Wiseman’s data, John would be left to form strategies based purely on guesswork.

The two of them toted their items up to the highest level and out into open air. John fed Wiseman the basket of baseballs though the top hatch of his home before climbing up. John climbed up a patio chair and scrambled to the top of the metal trailer sitting above his domicile and gave Wiseman a hand with both himself and their stuff. The air was cooler above the marketplace, and spring-crisp. Light towers circled the city, their wide banks of bulbs visible for miles. Bright stars blanketed a clear sky, constellations that John had never bothered to learn suspended proudly in the heavens. Here, sandwiched between the lower and upper stands, they tended to do something quite illegal but intensely fun.

As Wiseman swung each bat in turn, testing which to use, he mentioned, “You missed the reading of the city council minutes this morning.”

John shrugged, digging into the basket for a favorable ball to start their game. “Meh.” Plenty of folks living in the fields missed the public readings of the minutes. The important stuff had a way of reaching John’s ears regardless.  

“Let me guess – Goodneighbor?”

“Mmm.”

“Aaaaaand you’ll be wanting a copy of my notes?”

John tapped the tip of his nose in confirmation.

Wiseman gave an irritated grunt. “You’re something else,” he said, shaking his head and smiling.

They stood as far apart as the length of the trailer would allow, Wiseman hefting his bat and John with the basket by his feet. John trusted Wiseman’s account of baseball over Moe Cronin’s. After all, Wiseman _had_ lived through that era.

“Eliza’s on the prowl,” John warned as he wound up. “Tried to claim me again.” He lobbed the ball hard.

“Ha!” Wiseman barked as he swung. The hit connected, and the ball went sailing out into the vacant stands. “Someone call the rusty gumshoe. Give him a head’s up.” He shielded his eyes against the glare of a stadium light tower to watch the ball sail out of sight, then readjusted his hold on the bat. “You know she’ll lose interest once you give in. That’s the easy way out.” Wiseman gave a sly smile. “Unless her skin’s not smooth enough for your taste.”

“What?” John faltered with his next pitch, momentarily confused before he got it. His mind didn’t automatically jump to the disgust that went hand in hand with bigotry. Besides, it wasn’t as if he’d never slept with a ghoul before. “Naw. That’s not it. I’m… kinda with someone.” He tossed a second ball.

Wiseman swung. The ball cracked and flew, flying into the stands. “That so? For how long now?”

“Just a couple… years,” he admitted. That sounded stranger out loud than in his head.

Wiseman laughed, rotating the bat in his hand. “Jeez, John. And your brother’s supposed to be the cagey one?” He shook his head and offered the swatter. “Here. Your go.”

They switched positions. John was in terrible form, missing each pitch. A grin made Wiseman’s features pull taunt. “With coordination like that, how are you still alive?”

John arched a brow, giving a sly leer. “Maybe I’m too damn pretty to die?”

A laugh rumbled deep from within Wiseman’s belly. “I’m not one to judge.”

John adjusted his hands to choke higher. Though he took life in stride, his humiliation with this game had about reached its limit.

“So, where’s your woman at?” asked Wiseman.

John drew a blank. “Who?”

“The one you just mentioned, chembrain,” teased Wiseman.

“Oh. Yeah.” Another pitch, another miss. _Goddamn it._

Wiseman was an upright citizen, always ready with praise, and one of the most dependable guys John knew. He shouldered many a burden with ease and had John’s respect. He struggled for a moment, weighing the cost of his words. He had never mentioned Danse to anyone. This was new territory. Having never been partial to lies, John tapped the bat against his knee as he guardedly answered, “Not here. Not even in the Commonwealth. And… not a woman. A guy. Tall, dark-haired, handsome. Ya know – standard.”

The ghoul gave a playful gasp, dark eyes widening in feigned disbelief. “What? Really? Color me surprised.”   

“Har har. My vices are vast and plentiful, and I make no apologies.” John’s score continued to suffer as his thoughts drifted.

“So… about the guy…” Wiseman probed as he paused his pitching, tossing the ball back and forth in his hands.

Locking up, bat over his shoulder, John blinked, asking, “What’s it to you?”

With a good-natured shrug, Wiseman said, “That’s what friends do, right? Take an interest?”

John’s posture loosened, letting the bat down, and stood straighter. Christ. Where to begin? How to explain loving someone that would always be just out of reach? He couldn’t say that Danse’s concern over their association was unfounded; John was certain that the Brotherhood’s bigotry knew no bounds, and that Danse would pay a price should they be discovered. John wished with all his heart to be able to dance with him in a room full of people, to show him off and put Danse’s fears to rest, but it seemed unlikely that that day would ever arrive.

So, simple facts, then. He could part with a minimal amount of information. Surely, that much wouldn’t be a betrayal of Danse’s trust. John decided to keep adjectives about Danse’s glorious ass to himself and focus on the basics. “The guy’s solid,” he said, his thumb tracing circles around the bat’s handle as he spoke, his breathing becoming calm and slow as his mind wandered. Danse’s face appeared in his mind, his hard jaw, the well-memorized scars and those deep, hurt eyes. “I can be ugly in front of him, cryin’ or selfish or spittin’ mad, and he ain’t fazed. He’s better than I deserve.” He blew a shaky puff of air and wished that he’d lit a cigarette for this. “It’s just… easy. He makes all my trash seem absolutely trivial. There’s no place for my bullshit, for my chems or excuses. He’s... he’s a good man.”

“Has he been here? Did I pass him in the street and not know it?” Wiseman asked, tossing another baseball.

John rushed to react. The swing went too high and the ball tumbled under his arm. He shook his head. “Not gonna happen. We only get together about six times a year – four if he’s in the middle of something big or can’t release a vertibird to meet me.”

Something shifted. The air seemed to drop by a few degrees as Wiseman’s face churned through several different expressions. In a jolt of motion, the ghoul flew at him and grabbed John’s arm. Wiseman hauled him into the semi-shielded camper on the roof, where no one could see them, John’s bat clattering to the floor. “ _Vertibird_?” Wiseman hissed, his breath hot in proximity, black eyes thundering. “You’re with a member of the Brotherhood of Steel?” he asked, the words slow and precise, as if John was too dumb to understand.

“Yeah,” John said, squirming against the ghoul’s crushing grip. “He’s some kinda big-shot officer. What of it?”

Wiseman’s piercing stare cut into him, making John feel as if he’d broken some unspoken rule. “Have you lost all sense? The Brotherhood’s made up of butchers and fanatics. Every one of them. You can’t reason with them – they don’t listen.” Tossing his head south, the ghoul shouted, “Look what they did to the Capital! That region used to be safe! Then they gutted Rivet City for parts and claimed the water supply for themselves!” John staggered slightly as Wiseman shoved him away. “Dammit, John. I thought I was your friend.”

Wiseman’s fingers had dug deep, and John rubbed the soreness from his arm. “You _are_ my friend,” he asserted. “Why the hell does it matter who I’m seein’?”

With his tilted head and incredulous expression, Wiseman’s posture insisted that John was an imbecile. “A ghoul and a human hanging out after dark. Do you know how this would look in the Capital? The Brotherhood would shoot me for daring to integrate, and likely, do the same to you for encouraging it.”   

John blinked at his boots as he processed the earful he’d been given. This was an abhorrent side of his friend he’d never witnessed. He had foolishly forgotten that Wiseman was a ghoul, neglected to see him as different, and hadn’t put his concerns in a separate category from his own. While the Brotherhood existed as a slight annoyance for humans and as the butt of many jokes, they posed a very real threat to the ghoul population.

“I want to be happy for you, John. But I can’t. It’s just disgusting.” 

Raising his eyes, John met Wiseman’s glare, a look that shared both revulsion and disappointment. The muscles in John’s arms trembled, his body wanting to beat unfair words out of existence.

Wiseman snorted and shook his head. “I’m sure you want to say that the man you’re with is different. But, is he? What do you really know about him? Do you know what he does when you aren’t around? About the orders he carries out?”

No. John didn’t. That had been the understanding between he and Danse since the beginning, to never speak of the Brotherhood. There was comfort in ignorance. If he knew… if brought proof that Danse participated in the murder of innocents based on nothing more than prejudice, he’d be half-tempted to bury his knife in Danse’s thick neck. He might even do the same to himself afterwards. Wouldn’t _that_ be poetic?

Empathy seemed to take root in Wiseman, and he sighed. “My advice? Decide if this guy is worth it. And do it fast. If this gets out, you’ll lose Roberts as an advocate, along with most of the city’s support. Diamond City, for all your brother’s bluster, is a ghoul town. Look at us – thirty percent of the whole city. I don’t think you get how lucky we are to live here. There aren’t many places where someone like me can be free, or prosperous. If you incite the fear of Brotherhood attention… well… there’d be panic.” He turned and pried the hatch leading down into Home Plate open. John stayed put. Wiseman knew how to let himself out. “Just… chew on that, will you? See ya around,” he concluded, vanishing into John’s home.

John nudged the discarded bats with the side of his foot, aluminum clattering against the metal flooring. He picked one up and absently ran his hand over it as he walked back out to the deck in a pensive state. John struggled to recall vague snippets of early conversations. Danse just patrolled around killing mutants, didn’t he? He handled rescues of other soldiers, as proved in Maryland, but beyond that… John drew a blank.

John had taken ill during one visit with Danse. Something simple, a cold or the flu, which was more of an inconvenience than a concern. Danse had taken great delight in caring for him, his big hands rubbing wide circles in John’s back while he lay curled in his lap, always so gentle with him. Danse was a decent man, John reminded himself, caught up in tremendous events. He had frequent nightmares, trapped in old battles that made him thrash and gasp, proof that the Brotherhood was ruining him. Wiseman was wrong. Danse was better than his faction; he didn’t fit right and knew it, had said as much, and that couldn’t just be about being gay in an unforgiving military environment. John believed – he _had_ to - that one day Danse would make him proud and step away from them, if for no other reason than to finally be able to be himself.

He wasn’t sure how much of that was an obligatory lie he needed to tell himself.

In a fit of fury, he lobbed a baseball up into the air and swung hard. The connecting crack took him by surprise, and the ball went sailing past the stands to smash into a stadium floodlight. There was a faint crash and a bulb went dark. John dropped the bat and shielded his eyes with a hand, staring into the lights.

“Shit.” He swiftly dispersed the roof, dropping down through the hatch in the camper.

Three weeks later, he received word that Danse’s leave had been cancelled, and would be updated when Danse was able. It happened sometimes. No big deal. A trip to Goodneighbor and a stack of essays on the pros and cons of using cartridges as currency kept him busy.

Four days after that, John woke up to a riot in the streets. He fumbled to pull on a shirt before rushing down the stairs and out the side door of his home. Diamond City security was lined up and at the ready, barring the ramp between the field and the stands. Security was utilizing salvaged _Zip_ model cardoors as shields, their uniforms fully visible through the curved glass. A crowd of mostly ghouls with a few token humans sprinkled in were shouting and pelting the officers was mutfruits and tatos, which left pulpy smears on the glass shields. The occasional glass bottle exploded against a shield.

Solomon’s shop was one door down, conveniently placed for when John’s whims struck. His neighbor was leaning against his own door, passively chewing a blade of razorgrain, watching the city unravel.  “S’goin’ on?” John slurred at Solomon, the sound of sleep still thick in his throat.

Solomon huffed, his half-lidded eyes cloudy and indifferent. “The ghouls are freaking out, man. Looks like the Brotherhood of Steel finally took the hammer to Underworld.”

John’s stomach contracted. Underworld was the ghoul capital of the East Coast. An assault on the city was an act of terrorism, the attack intending to instill fear and panic in all ghouls everywhere. Sure looked like it was working.

Barefoot, his long hair mussed, John tore through the marketplace. He was recognized, and a crack in the line of guards formed, allowing him to slither by. He charged up the stairs and onto the mayoral lift rig, punching the control button with force. 

As the lift ascended, he caught the Black twins leaning over the railing at the Colonial Taphouse, jeering down at the ghouls. “Filthy beasts,” Mags commented, her nose wrinkled in distaste. “Crawling through our city like vermin.”

“The whole Commonwealth could benefit from thinning their numbers,” added William, a grim sneer on his face. “God bless the Brotherhood.”

John was tempted to stop the lift and heave them both over the railing.

When the mayoral office came into view, he saw Eliza sitting at her secretary station with her head down, her face buried in her arms, the wealth of her curls spilling over her desk. The lift banged to a halt and she lifted her head. Her gray eyes met his. “Oh, John…” She took his hand as he passed, and he allowed it. Towing her, he burst into Robert’s office.

Quaint, and sparsely decorated with pre-war décor – plush rugs, posters, intact figurines, even a working Jukebox – the office took a step backwards in time. The mayor slumped in an overstuffed armchair. Already ancient by human standards, Roberts seemed to have aged significantly with this development. He looked almost mummified as he sat near a radio, his gnarled hands pressed over his heart as he listened in on a broadcast.

The harsh rumble of a super mutant’s voice was giving a report. _“ – last survivor of the Summit in Underworld. The rest… Shepard… Fawkes… they’ll all gone. Every soul in the museum.”_

John took a long breath and Eliza clutched his hand tight. Roberts was frozen, trapped in shock.

 _“The governor gave us clearance, and we assumed that extended to Brotherhood relations._ _We took separate routes, followed protocol. Assembled peacefully. There must have been an informant. There… there was a child. A boy with a scar on his face, leading a troop of soldiers in black armor. I could barely see him through the fire fight….”_

The nails on his free hand dug painfully into his palm. John had passed through Underworld on many an occasion in his youth, had met Danse in the same region. He knew people – ghouls – that lived there. _Had_ lived there… Now, the place had been wiped clean.

_“Any chance for a coalition of sentient mutants died along with my friends. To anyone looking to trace this transmission, you won’t find me. I don’t know how long this message will last on repeat. This is Marcus, last survivor of the Summit –”_

John finally noticed Travis Miles, their radio jockey, sitting in a chair in the office, appearing uneasy and trying to shrink into the cushions. That was par for Travis, but he was a few shades whiter than normal. “What’s goin’ on with this?” John asked, tilting his head at the radio.

“It’s… well, it’s… probably some type of… of blanket signal,” Travis stammered, “the kind that, you know, broadcasts across all frequencies. So, uh, yeah… it’s everywhere. Been playing for a few hours now. Folks are freaking out. The mayor asked if I could block it, but… I don’t… I don’t really know what I’m doing…”

“Is this legit?” John questioned, daring to try and snag Roberts’ eye. “Anything else other than the broadcast?”

Emerging from his reverie, Roberts leaned back in his chair and released a shaky sigh. “A few merchants took a boat up from the Capital. They’re being detained in the ticketing queue for their safety. Their stories match the broadcast’s – a sizable Brotherhood squadron, with black-armored soldiers at the forefront, storming Underworld.” His wrinkled eyes closed. “The building was set on fire afterwards. All the debris in the Mall… it fed the blaze. If survivors fled to neighboring structures, that’s where the flames claimed them.”

A grave silence stretched. “What now?” John asked in a low voice. “Security is going at full mast. Looks like chaos out there.”

Roberts’ brow hardened, his old, curved spine straightening best as it could. “We must keep the peace. I fear that Diamond City will have dark days ahead. Aggressors will use this as an excuse to engage. Those seeking justice will use this as an excuse to engage. _The bottom is out of the tub_.”

Damn. Things had to be pretty black for Roberts to quote Abraham Lincoln. “You bringing the city council on board?” John asked, knowing that might be a terrible mistake. Most council members were people of influence, sure, but the upper stands were enormously overrepresented. Judging by the Black’s comments from earlier, John could guess at what the council’s majority would say – if the Brotherhood started trolling for ghoul refuges, Diamond City would definitely be on the list.  

A saddened nod from Roberts. “I’ll have to. The city is in tumult. I must confer. That’s what separates an elected position from a dictatorship, my boy. I have to trust that the people will do the right thing.” More to himself, he added. “…I _have_ to.”

John took his leave. He didn’t have a place on the council and his duty was to be in the streets, taking to individuals and hearing them out, making folks feel like their sides were being taken under consideration. He took the elevator down, which was less dramatic then his ride up the outer lift. The ticketing area was a sight to be. Several brahmin, weighed down with cargo, snorted and kicked, upset to be sealed indoors between the Wall and the stairway to the field. A bushel of caravanners sat in a circle on the ground comparing their stories while a young woman in a ragged burgundy coat struggled to keep pace taking notes.

Taking a right, John began climbing the long stairway to the marketplace. The passageway was dim, depressing, and empty. Maybe that was just his mood. He could hear the rabble in the field going at full force, chanting obscenities and pleading for the mayor to come down. 

John stepped into sunlight and the field came into view, the row of guards still dividing the chaos in the field from the stands. He was immediately grabbed and yanked back into the tunnel. John’s survival instinct kicked in and Wiseman almost got a knife in the gut. Confused, John kept his knife hovering in midair as Wiseman grabbed his wrist and backed him against a wall. Wiseman was a strong, tall wall of a ghoul, easily besting scrawny John. The fury in the ghoul’s eyes was staggering, and John felt puzzled on how to react. “Tell me that your stalwart warrior didn’t play a part in destroying Underworld,” Wiseman growled. “That he would have said ‘ _no_ ’ and turned in his armor. Do it. Defend him to me.”

The guy must have been on his way up to the mayoral office when he spotted John and decided to accost him. John lowered the knife and sheathed it, squirming out of the ghoul’s hold without answering him. He couldn’t. He didn’t know Danse’s whereabouts. Fuck. He hardly ever did.

Wiseman gave John a lengthy glare. “If you back _him_ , you back _them_.” He turned his back and departed.

What a fucked-up run of luck to have slipped in mentioning Danse prior to all this. Now Wiseman knew. And if he told anyone else, particularly with the city enflamed, John would be ruined.

John rubbed at his face as his nerves fired, carefully sticking to the backs of buildings and off the main paths as he made his way home. Once home, he promptly began pacing. Wiseman had gotten his brain to churn in a nonstop circle. Was Wiseman right – had Danse been at Underworld? Hell, for that big an endeavor, Danse would have readily volunteered. And that cancelled leave… damn. It all timed out too perfectly.

By this point, he was shaking. Not from a need for chems, although a binge was certainly around the corner, but from self-loathing. The simple solution was to write Danse off, to never see him again. If John spoke to him again, he would be betraying what was left of his morals, and excusing Danse’s actions.

His heart tore. He had fallen for one of the bad guys, a villain. A nauseating image came to mind, of his proud Danse, covered in the blood of innocent ghouls and of mutants trying to help the Wastes instead of hurting it, slapping his teammates on the back and congratulating them on a job well done. But John didn’t know, not for certain. John’s psyche waged war with itself, grasping at the faintest threads of hope. Plenty of things could have keep Danse out of the fight, right? Things like… like…

“Son of a bitch.”

John’s resolve fell to pieces. He charged up the levels of his house and bursting out of the hatch up the roof. Panting, his eyes scanned the city. People were yelling, cursing. Someone was crying, loudly but out of sight. A ghoul and a human were in a fistfight by the noodle kiosk, security rushing in to break up the scuffle. He kept waiting for the sound of gunfire to erupt. The city was charged, angry and confused, and John related all too well.

The sluggers from last night rolled about underfoot, the metal cold against his bare feet, and he hopped to keep from tripping over them. He snatched one up, whirling it in a vicious circle. Pivoting, he slammed the barrel into the inside panel of the camper, bellowing his tangled emotion. Furious yells ripped his throat raw, dissolving into a keening that didn’t quite manage to produce tears. He kept battering, beating dents into the aluminum until his muscles screamed and his blows became sloppy, glancing off the metal instead of knocking divots into it.

He hated everything. Hated Danse for picking the wrong side, hated himself for wanting to know if the man was even all right, hated the Brotherhood for being illogical extremists, hated that he had to sit and wait for Danse to send him word, and hated that he’d ever gone to Alexandria to begin with.

The bottom really was out of the tub.

He found some shoes and sucked down a canister of Jet before venturing out into the unrest.


	18. Later, Goodneighbor

MACCREADY

The Third Rail, MA

April 16th, 2288

What a long friggin’ day.

Following the bloodbath at Bunker Hill, Cait had the fabulous idea of going to get ‘pissed drunk’. MacCready and Danse, who had spotted the two of them crossing the Charlestown Bridge and flagged them down, agreed that, yes, that would be an acceptable end to this shitshow.

The nearest safe location was Goodneighbor, which served MacCready twofold – he could get an early start tomorrow escorting one of Daisy’s caravans south, back to the Capital and his son. After that, well… who the heck knew?

The trio slipped through the streets towards Goodneighbor and found a few drifters repainting the entry door, though stubborn streaks of blue still showed through beneath the new coat. A solemn sort of cheerfulness hung in the air. Cautious. Delicate. The back alleys were free of fights and the streets, although lacking the standard ratio of ghouls, were full of handshakes and friendly back-patting.

Taking a seat at the bar of The Third Rail, still stinking of fear-sweat and gunpowder, MacCready heaved a sigh. “Home sweet hole,” he murmured, plunking down a handful of caps for a beer just north of lukewarm. The station was hazy with cigarette smoke and crowded. Piper was in attendance along with a whole mess of other people. She and Cait seated themselves on one of the worn couches, playing poker with a bunch of guys he didn’t know, while Magnolia crooned in the background. The place felt homey and safe. Crap. It was gonna suck to leave this behind. Well, the Third Rail anyway. People brought their best behavior to the speakeasy lest they get banned from the town for life.

He spotted Danse at the bar, seated at the furthest stool from the entry, shrinking away from bustle of the room, hunched over his drink. Several dirty shot glasses were upside down on the bartop in front of him. All in all, MacCready was glad that the hulking synth was still alive, and that Curie had been recovered. Soured guilt seeped its way into MacCready’s heart and he felt like an ass – like a loser. Automaton or not, Danse’s life was way worse than his, having everything he had sucked away and reality rubbed in his face.

MacCready slid down the bar and took a seat next to him. “You and people mix about as well as oil and ocean water,” he cracked in good humor.

Danse gave a preoccupied grunt in response. “I received a field promotion today,” he mumbled into the glass in his hand.

MacCready wedged his beer on a corner of the counter and slapped the cap off. “That so?” he asked, pocketing the cap. He raised the bottle to his lips. “To what?”

Danse slammed the shot back and added the glass to his collection. “General of the Minutemen.”

Choking on the news, beer sprayed painfully out of MacCready’s nose. He clapped a hand over his face, sputtering while he tried to process Danse’s news. _Huh. That might just work._ The ‘General’ was already notoriously famous. Everyone would assume that role was still filled by Nate. If Danse kept out of uniform and away from making a spectacle of himself, no one would be the wiser. No other civilian had the training and gumption to remold the Minutemen into a comparable force. It was a solid choice. Coughing, MacCready hacked, “What about Nate?”

Danse lifted a shoulder. “He’s overwhelmed. His work behind enemy lines and shouldering the detective agency caseload required his full attention.”

Rolling the beer bottle in his hands, MacCready tried to sort out his dues. He owed Danse an apology before he left the Commonwealth forever. The guy tried so hard to fulfill everything that was asked of him, be it Brotherhood orders, Nate’s requests, or John’s wishes. He had done nothing to provoke MacCready’s bigotry other than exist, and that was a pretty crappy way to relate to someone. 

“Look,” MacCready said, picking at his beer’s label. “I didn’t mean to make such a scene over you being a synth.” Danse’s hunched spine stiffened a bit at the word _synth_. “Most of that, it wasn’t about you. Being in the Commonwealth, I think everybody worries about getting taken, replaced. Christ,” MacCready continued, caught up in momentary horror. “What would happen to my so… to my family? It makes me wanna piss my pants. But that fear… none of that is your fault. I’m sorry that I’m an asshole. And a coward.”  

Giving a solemn smile at his empty glasses, Danse shrugged again. MacCready took that as an acceptance of his apology.  After a sip of his beer, MacCready added, “I guess I shouldn’t have been so shocked. Everyone’s heard the way you talk. You kinda sound like you swallowed the most pretentious thesaurus in existence.”

Danse’s precarious smile wavered. “I enjoy utilizing particular words…”

Chuckling, MacCready clapped him on the back. “That’s ‘cause you’re a nerd and a jerk. But, that’s okay. News flash – so am I.”

Some rude ghoul shouldered in between MacCready and Danse. The guy pried the half-finished bottle of beer from MacCready’s hand and signaled to the mechanical barkeep. “Hey, Chuck – pry open one of the good crates, will ya? No point in hoarding goods if you ain’t gonna share with your friends.”

White Chapel Charlie whirred, and his chassis tilted as if in protest, warning, “Long as you’re the one payin’ the bills, Mayor.”

The ghoul grinned and leaned against the bar. “Hey, I gotta be good for something, right?”

“Oh, shi – I, uh… hey. Hancock,” MacCready babbled, feeling guilty at not recognizing him. Sometimes, a ghoul just looked like a ghoul, largely indistinguishable from one another. John had retired his outfit, which hadn’t helped, exchanging it for leathers, a white undershirt, boots strapped up to his knees, the flag at his waist, and a red banana tied around his crown, obscuring his baldness. A set of holotags glowed blue over his collar. His rings still glittered on his fingers.

Charlie slid a variety of bottles their way. Danse made a cutting motion with his hand, a negative on more alcohol. Placing a gentle hand on Danse’s arm, John requested, “Check the back room for me, will ya? Sometimes disgruntled triggermen like to plot my demise in there.”

Alarm darkening his face, Danse shoved away from the bar and strode towards the back, barely wobbling at all.

“That true?” MacCready asked, starting in on a bottle of Nuka Dark. John always got his hands on the best items.

John finished MacCready’s beer and twisted the top off a bottle of moonshine. “Sometimes. Dan won’t pick a fight, but he’ll look intimidating as fuck and make troublemakers turn tail. ‘Sides, I need to speak with you.”

MacCready’s expression curdled as he frowned at the bartop. _Great_ , he thought. He still bore the title of Deputy Mayor. John would kill him for trying to duck out, maybe even literally. He was unpredictable that way, sometimes letting slights roll off him, sometimes taking an offence way too personally. Fighting the guy in the middle of a crowded bar full of people that adored him didn’t bode well for MacCready, and sweat began beading under his cap.

“Ya know,” John started, filling a glass with moonshine. “If our vault-registered friend hadn’t shown up and we’d’ve stayed in Goodneighbor, you woulda been my kinda guy.” 

John’s statement took him by surprise, and he had to clear his throat several times before he could speak. “I… um… Glad it all worked out then,” he stammered, cheeks enflamed.

“Wouldn’t have been interested?” John asked, cocking a sultry brow at him.

“Not a frosty chance in Hell.”

John exhaled a soft laugh and nodded, bringing his glass to his mouth. “Good to know. Clearly, I have a type – disinterested soldiers,” he confessed before taking a sip.

Shaking his head, MacCready admitted, “I was never a soldier.”

“I stand corrected.”

MacCready stared into his bottle. “And… I don’t think I would have been happy to hang my hat here permanently.” He dared a glance up at John. Although he held his tongue, John didn’t seem pleased to hear that. His set his drink down, his mouth tightening into a line.

Backpedaling, MacCready tried to explain. He wouldn’t have another chance to do so. “Not that I don’t get it. Goodneighbor is complicated. I know that there are a lot of pieces in play. I’ve just… I’ve never been into chess.” He drank his cocktail and tried to avoid John’s questing gold eyes. “I mean, c’mon man – it took Nate in a friggin’ costume to do all the things you wouldn’t. There’s a serial killer thinning the local raider population and you stipend out mercs to clear property.” A flutter of annoyance built in his chest and he gave John a level glance. “You talk about freedom – but freedom for who? You wave the flag and rally the cry when all the while the straits stay dire. You think it’s fun to watch raiders and scumbags try to shake Daisy down? It sucks. And people are still shooting synths in the streets. I was all for that for a while, but… tall, dark and grumpy in there?” He jerked a thumb toward the back room. “He’s yours. And I guess even people like him deserve a fighting chance. So, calling Goodneighbor home? No thanks.”

John was motionless, pinning him with an intense glare, the glass of moonshine forgotten. MacCready swallowed, remembering that John’s usual solution to opposition was violence. Seemed like he and Danse weren’t too different in that regard. “Thinking you might’ve done a better job with Goodneighbor?” John asked in a clipped tone.

MacCready returned to his now lukewarm Nuka Dark, sipping between sentences. If he was lucky, he could die drunk. “Maybe I would have,” he said, part truth, part challenge. Little Lamplight flashed briefly in his memories. “But as is? Not sure I’d want it. Normal people come here and they lose their shi – minds. They might be totally capable wherever they came from, farming or trading or whatever it is they do, but you add in Goodneighbor and suddenly everyone just goes nuts, forgetting their families and responsibilities. And while that might make for a hell of a good time, going home broke and high has probably cost plenty of folks their lives, livelihoods, and loved ones.” He pulled the bottle away from his lips and sighed. “Dude, I wouldn’t bring my kid here. And I wish that I could. There’re a lot of awesome things that I love about this place. But it’ll take a lot of work. This place is too big. It should give Sanctuary a run for its money. Heck, maybe even Diamond City. Being safe and strong and able to grow – I mean… Isn’t that the point of freedom? That’s independence. That’s liberty.”

John’s gnarled fingers tightened around his glass. “You should take Goodneighbor.”

MacCready reeled back as if struck and fought to string John’s words together. “You… what? Y-you can’t just give me your town.” MacCready was breathless with disbelief. This was too great of an honor and he wasn’t sure how to process the offer. Did John know about his childhood reign in the Capital? He had certainly never told him, keeping his past to himself.

“I can,” John rasped. “I’m seceding. And I’d be hard pressed to find anyone better suited.”

MacCready shifted in his seat feeling slightly dizzy from the amount of confidence John was conveying. “I… don’t know what to say. Do you, um, have a second choice?”

Tracing a finger around the rim of his glass, John said, “Hadn’t thought about it. There a problem?” He gave MacCready a sly look. “Not enough caps in it for you? Cuz, trust me, there’s plenty.”

“No, it’s not about…” MacCready sucked in a breath, trying to sort out the bombardment of thoughts in his head. “I’m a fuckup. And I make bad calls. And I wanna go home – I wanna _be_ home – even if I don’t know where that is yet. I want to do better. I _need_ to do better. And not just for me.”

John gave MacCready an easy smile. “Fuckups are welcome here, you know that. I didn’t pick you as Deputy Mayor ‘cause you’d look good in my duds. I know what drives you, brother. It ain’t caps you’re after – it’s security. You’re the smart-ass kid that wants something better, something bigger. I’m just the numbers guy that handles the caps and reminds folks to be decent.” 

MacCready couldn’t help his dumb stare. Here was John, giving him everything he could ever dare to want on a silver platter, and he was sitting here trying to come up with excuses to turn it all down? And for what, the chance to wallow in pity? _Stop being a little baby idiot_ , he berated himself. Was the chance to be a mayor again scary as hell? Heck, yeah. Would he be a monumental fool to turn it down? You bet your ass. “Well, I…” He cleared his throat and sat a little straighter, wishing he was taller. “I won’t do numbers. That’s gonna have to keep on being you. And Marowski? He’s gotta go. The guy’s bad news.”

A genuine smile tugged at John’s face. He laughed and took a drink. “Deal. And I’ll be able to leave all my crap here. Hauling paperwork across the ‘Wealth ain’t exactly a good time.” They paused and drank. “You’ll be good for Goodneighbor, kid,” John said with a gentle nod. “I believe in you.”

This was an unexpected twist to the fresh start MacCready wanted, with the advantage of staying put and keeping his ragged band of friends. And Duncan… jeez… he could finally send for Duncan. Surely, Daisy would know someone trustworthy that could escort him up to the Commonwealth. Man. This was almost too good to be true. “Won’t the people vote on it?” MacCready asked, concerned tracing his brow.

“Oh, they’ll vote,” said John. “But no one else is gonna run. S’how I got my gig. Goodneighbor folks know a good thing when they see it.” John’s mouth quirked downwards. “You’re gonna go changing it, though. But I get it. This was as far as I could go.”

“Of course I’ll change it. I have a son that I haven’t seen in eighteen months. I might actually make it respectable.”

John gave him a side-eyed look, but he was smiling.

After polishing off his beer, MacCready blew a low whistle. “You leaving Goodneighbor. End of an era.”

“Oh, save your tears for after.” John left his drink unfinished and climbed onto the bar, using MacCready’s shoulder as leverage. Tall above the crowd, John snapped his fingers at Charlie, who cut the music, and he raised his hands for attention. All eyes turned upwards. “Yeah, it’s me,” John addressed the crowd, speaking loudly over the chatter. “I know, I know. I’m out of uniform.” Voices and shuffling died down almost instantly. Having the room, John said, “So, uh, hey. I been doing some thinking. Ain’t no surprise that I’ve been out on the road a lot. Done a lotta good and made some big changes to the world at large. But that ain’t exactly been fair to you. So, I’m gonna come right out and say it – I’m stepping down as your mayor.”

A stunned outcry rolled through the establishment. John waved his hands for quiet.

“Now, this ain’t about you,” he continued, “so don’t go thinking that it is. I like you all. We’re friends. But that doesn’t mean you should elevate me. I love Goodneighbor just as much as the rest of ya. That’s why I gotta be honest and say I’m not the guy for the job.” His gaze roamed the room, scanning familiar faces. “Me quitting is a good idea for all sorts of reasons. And while I didn’t deliberately screw anything up, I probably managed to anyway, and hope you’ll forgive me. I did the best that I could and, frankly, you deserve a hell of a lot more.” He paused, as if taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “I want to thank you. You’ve been good to me throughout times in my life when I definitely didn’t earn it. I could have shut up and run when things got tough. Hell, that’s my standard M.O., but that woulda been a real shitty goodbye and I care about you too much let things end like that. Truth is, I’m just too torn to keep staying here.”

“Don’t leave us, Hancock!” a voice pleaded from the crowd. “Goodneighbor’ll get overrun quick!”

“Yeah,” someone else called out. “This’ll be a raider town before you know it!”

Admiration and respect rolled off the crowd in waves. MacCready wondered if the town would ever harbor those types of feelings towards him. How long would it take for them to trust him the way they trusted John? Years? Decades? He wasn’t sure if he’d ever deserve such devotion.

“Now, I ain’t gonna let the place fall apart on you,” John said, calming the crowd. “You should have somebody who’s gonna be up in the State House, day in, day out. I got someone in mind to take over that’ll take our town to the next level.” He gave a grim smile. “ _Our_. I guess _your_ _town_ is more accurate.” John looked out over the crowd, and his smile widened to something sincerer. MacCready followed his line of sight to where it rested on Danse, who had poked his head out of the back room to catch the speech. This was because of him, MacCready knew. It was Danse that John was changing for. 

With honest enthusiasm, John concluded, “I’m gonna be happy to be one of the people again. This is a pretty kickass town. You better do me proud.” Sliding off the counter, he landed with a flourish. He knocked his knuckles against the bar, the metals in his rings catching the light from Magnolia’s stage parcans. “Later, Goodneighbor. I love the hell out of you.”

The Third Rail dissolved back into conversation, hurried voices discussing the change in management, or those less inclined to care, turning back to their drinking and gambling. Magnolia started a new song, something slow and bluesy. Piper approached with her beer in her hand. “You stole some of that from Washington’s Farewell Address,” she admonished John, elbowing him in the ribs.

Rubbing at his side, John shrugged dismissively. “Only the gist of it.” Piper grinned and flagged Charlie down for another drink.

Danse joined them, wearing a confused look on his face. “What just happened?” he asked with thick brows lowered. “What did I miss?” John glided up to Danse’s side, sliding his boney hand into his. He tugged the bigger man away from the others and found a clear space wide enough to maneuver in. They slow-danced together, whispering to each other in low tones and nodding. They looked so enamored with each other that MacCready found it nauseatingly saccharine. _Jesus,_ he thought. _A ghoul and his robot_. But maybe they both deserved something like this, to be in their own bubble and set the past aside, if only for a little while.

MacCready sat on his stool, duster draped off the back, finishing his beer as someone tapped him on the shoulder. Turning, he found Cait standing behind him. She was a little cleaner than before, but just a little. Blood still flecked her skin, mingling with her freckles. A weak smile spread, only to fade.

With a sudden weight bowing his shoulders, he set his drink aside. “Ah, sh – crap,” he muttered, knowing what she was going to say, that things weren’t going to end up in a favorable scenario. He stood and, because it felt appropriate, he removed his cap. “You and me… that was never gonna work, was it?”

She shrugged, green eyes downcast. “Ya want a family and a decent life. I ain’t gonna stand in the way o’ that.”

“I dunno,” MacCready muttered. “Couldn’t you –”

“No.”

There was silence between them for a moment. The crowded room felt very empty. Magnolia’s smooth crooning filled the gap while MacCready struggled for words, wringing his cap to occupy his hands.

Lifting her head, Cait took a deep breath. “Think I’m gonna head out, leave the Commonwealth behind and be on my own for a bit. Might find just the place for me.”

MacCready forced a tight smile that he didn’t feel. He understood her need to run. Up until ten minutes ago, he’d felt the same.

When Cait smiled back at him, her eyes were full of warmth. She reached a hand out to cup his cheek. “There’s a heap lot of difference between actin’ like a good person and actually bein’ one,” she said with conviction. “You’re one of the good ones, luv. So, curse if you’ve gotta, drink ‘til ya pass out, and shoot a motherfucker in the head. Won’t change who you are. If ya’d bother to look around – really bothered to listen – you’d know that everybody loves ya. Nate’s gang – not one of them has a shit thing to say about you. Teasin’, maybe, but ya got the respect of an entire damn community. Give my regards to the lot of them.” Her fingers slid a little and she pinched him on the cheek. “Was fun while it lasted, boy-o. You’re gonna do right fine for yourself, MacCready. No doubts.” Her hand fell away.

“I told you – RJ.”

She nodded. “RJ.”

He shrugged, his cap clapping against his leg. “Or, Mayor MacCready, I guess. Looks like that’s gonna be a thing again.” He frowned at her, genuine concern creasing his features. “Are you gonna be okay out there on your own?”

Cait laughed. “Luv,” she asked, “ain’t we always on our own?” She stepped away and wove through the throng of people, disappearing in a blink into the crowd.

MacCready blew a hearty exhale as he replaced his cap. He resumed his seat and ordered another beer. As he popped the cap on his bottle, Piper leaned his way. “Trouble in paradise?” she asked, a drink of her own in her hand.

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” MacCready grumbled in return, speaking directly into his beer.

Piper lifted her chin, one side of her mouth pulling tight in understanding. “Ah.” She raised her bottle. “To being young and single in the Commonwealth.”

“I’m not gonna toast that.”

“Hmm…” Piper tapped the mouth of her beer against her teeth, thinking. “To change? Hopefully, for the better?”

“Yeah. Sure. I can drink to that.”

She tapped the neck of her bottle against his. Pensively consuming his beverage, it occurred to MacCready that he couldn’t keep playing the part of the petulant adolescent; he’d hand that role off to the long-coasted asshat in the Brotherhood’s zeppelin. Hell, didn’t Duncan deserve to have a functional adult as a parent?

John had given him an amazing opportunity that he wasn’t sure how to fathom. Being a real mayor seemed like a hard and complex job. Regardless, he was ready to take the next step. He’d have to find a real town doctor and deal with Marowski for good. A lot of caps passed through Goodneighbor. A lot of a lot. Plenty to throw at people that proved to be problematic, and enough to encourage troublemakers to leave or shape up. With the warehouses and hotel cleared, there’d be plenty of room for families to move in, giving Diamond City a run for its money.

A kid-friendly Goodneighbor. MacCready sipped his beer and tried to imagine it. He pictured Duncan running, healthy and happy, from stall to stall in an expanded marketplace, holding up items, new exotic foods or pieces of cool-looking scrap, smiling, asking, ‘ _Daddy, what does this do_?’.

His heart swelled, full to bursting with emotion. “Don’t worry, kiddo,” he said under his breath. “I’m bringing you home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rewrites are DONE! Now, I can finally move on with the story! So dang pumped.


End file.
